


chain of dissent

by beansterpie



Category: Berserk (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Court Politics, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Golden Age (Berserk), Jealousy, Multi, Overcoming Trauma, Pre-Eclipse (Berserk), Sexual Content, Slow-ish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-03-05 19:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18835543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beansterpie/pseuds/beansterpie
Summary: Instead of Casca, Griffith is the one who spots Guts through his window on that snowy night. He goes to confront him. They talk, and without the Hawks standing witness, more comes out.It changes things.





	1. Communication

He departs when the castle is asleep. The sky is just starting to lighten to a robin blue towards the east, announcing the approach of the sun, but as it is, the world is bathed in the soft blue-grey of dawn. 

With every crunch of his boots in the snow, Guts focuses intently on the unblemished white in front of him. There is a door in his mind, behind which thoughts and emotions fly in dizzying circles, but he refuses to open that door and contemplate any of them. As long as he just keeps moving forward, everything will be fine. 

He becomes aware of another distant set of footsteps crunching through the silence alongside his own. Tightening his hold on his bag, Guts increases his pace.

“Guts.”

Like a rabbit in a snare, he stops. 

“Where are you going?” 

It’s a fucked up kind of fate that the last person he wants to see is the one who stops him before he’s even properly left. Guts drops his head between his shoulders and sighs. He turns around. 

Griffith stands in the snow in his night clothes and a light robe thrown over his shoulders. The only sign that the other man feels the chill in the air is the icy look in his eye as he glares at Guts. 

“What are you doing out here?” Guts asks. 

“Answer the question.” 

Relentless and cold. This isn’t a side of Griffith that he often has to deal with. “I’m leaving,” he says, finally. 

Griffith clenches his jaw. “Why?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Griffith opens his mouth but Guts continues before he can speak. “Don’t try to stop me, Griffith. I’ve been planning this for a while.” 

The two of them stand there for several seconds, the gap between them vast and frigid. 

“No.”

The word is so soft that Guts isn’t sure he actually heard it. “What?”

“Come with me.” Griffith is already turning away to head back inside, and Guts has to stop himself from obeying out of habit. 

“Griffith—”

“Please, Guts.” His voice is quiet and fragile. “I just want to talk.” 

Ankle deep in white snow, surrounded by the grey of the castle walls and brittle trees, Griffith almost blends in entirely in the monochromatic picture. The soft dye in his clothing and the cold-bitten flush on his face are the only things that separate him. Even though the rational part of his mind is pleading for him to just turn around and walk away, after a moment Guts follows. 

They don’t speak while they walk a familiar route through the stone corridors. It almost feels colder inside than out in these unheated areas of the castle, and Guts can see both of their breaths clearly against the shadowy walls. Reaching Griffith’s room is a relief, if only to get out of the chill; he has the luxury of a fireplace in his private chambers and Guts goes over to poke at it, trying to ignore the reason they’re here. 

“Why are you leaving?”

Guts doesn’t respond in favor of throwing a log onto the smoldering fire. When he looks over his shoulder, he finds Griffith standing carefully in front of the door.

“Is it because I’m cruel? Do you resent my methods and how I’ve used you?” 

“It’s not—this has nothing to do with that.” 

“Then why?”

“…War’s over,” Guts grunts, “there’s nothing left for me here. Everything else is politics and court dances. You know I can’t do that—I don’t _want_ to do that.”

“So you were just going to leave without telling anyone?” Griffith asks, his voice harsh and concise. “Did you really think I would allow that? You belong to me, wasn’t that the deal? It was your suggestion, even.” 

“That was years ago.”

“So what.” 

For a minute they’re still while the tension mounts. “If I wanted out of this room, you couldn’t stop me.” Guts says, and his words are deliberate, slow and unyielding. There isn’t a doubt in his mind that, in an unarmed brawl, Guts would be able to overpower the other. Swallowing, Griffith’s eyes dart to the side where his sword rests against his bed frame, and Guts scoffs when he tracks his gaze. “What, so you’re gonna stab me?” 

The other man seems to be about to retort, a defensive tilt to his mouth, but he changes tack. “Why now?” he demands. 

“I just told you—”

“Why are you suddenly so intent on being rid of me? You never seemed discontent with following me, helping me achieve my dream. I thought…” The righteous indignation that was carrying his words seems to deflate. “I thought you were happy.” 

He’s not wrong; Guts was happy, but that feeling of contentment feels far off next to the restlessness he’s been feeling for the past few months. Ever since… “I don’t want to just be following you.” 

“So you’re sick of being in my shadow.” 

“No,” he says sharply but then huffs and rubs his neck. “Fuck, maybe. I don’t know.” 

Silence spreads like a lake between them and Guts feels weary all of a sudden. He wanders over and takes a seat in Griffith’s desk chair, idly examining the various documents and propped open books that cover the well used surface. Guts knows next to nothing about the written letter, but the neat, flourishing script that he knows to be Griffith’s handwriting looks like it belongs right alongside those of nobles and kings. He can’t read any of it. 

“Griffith you… you’re a fucking miracle.” He picks up the pen placed carefully to the side of the desk. It feels like it would snap with the slightest press of his fingers. “I thought you were out of your mind when we met, but you did it. You won, and your dream is so close I feel like I can grab it. But you don’t need me for this part. You never really needed me.” 

“What are you—”

“I know I’m strong. I know I helped you get here, but we’re all just… pebbles in your path. You were fine before I got here and you’ll be fine after I leave. Nothing can touch you.” 

“Guts, I—” Griffith swallows thickly, “I couldn’t have come this far without you.”

“Maybe not this quickly, but you would have.” 

“Just because the war is over doesn’t mean you’re obsolete. There will be plenty more for you to do, more battles to be fought, to be won.” 

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind.” 

“Guts, please!” 

Guts drops the pen as he looks up, startled. It’s the first time Griffith has raised his voice since he caught the other sneaking away, and it’s a far cry from his usual, measured tone. 

“Please,” he repeats, quieter this time. “As my friend, don’t go.” 

The pen he dropped is on the floor, the tip of the nib broken off. Guts breathes slowly, picking it up and fiddling with the sharp edges of of the metal. “Yeah, that’s the thing,” he murmurs. The metal bites into his thumb, and a small bead of blood wells. “We’re not friends.” 

When Griffith doesn’t respond Guts raises his head to look at the other man. He looks like he’s been slapped, mouth caught in a slack jawed state, and he stares at him with an indecipherable expression that Guts doesn’t know what to do with. Slowly, Griffith walks over to his bed tucked in the corner of the room and lowers himself onto it. He sits there, his hair covering his face. 

“Do you hate me?” he whispers, “All this time, have you quietly hated me?” 

“No I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.” 

Griffith lifts his head, a slight furrow in his brow. 

“I’m- I’m your friend, and I’ll always be your friend,” Guts stumbles, his spit thick and unpleasant in his throat, “but you’re not mine.” 

Shaking his head, Griffith says, “I don’t understand.” 

“… That night, when I killed Julian and—” Adonis’ guileless, tearful eyes flash at him and he squeezes his eyes shut. Not the time. “And his heir. I went to find you afterwards.” 

Griffith frowns, uncomprehending. “I didn’t see you that night.” 

“Nah you didn’t see me. I saw you with the princess at that fancy ball. Casca stopped me before I rushed in looking like, well, like I just killed a bunch of people, but we heard you. You were talking with the princess by the fountain.” Out of the corner of his eye, Guts sees Griffith shifting in his seat.

“You said a bunch of shit. How important it is for men to follow their dreams, no matter what. And… and how the only way you could see someone as a friend was if they were your equal. Not like the Hawks, who just follow you to support your dream. Not like me.”

Griffith makes a sound, something between a laugh and a huff. “No, but Guts, I wasn’t talking about _you_.” 

“Oh, just the rest of the Hawks, then?” he shoots back, unimpressed. 

It looks like Griffith is about to say something, but instead bites his tongue and looks away. “That wasn’t a conversation that I intended for anyone else to hear.” When Guts scoffs, he’s quick to continue. “No, listen. I was speaking to the princess so my turn of phrase may have been… overly grandiose.” 

“What, so you’re saying that you didn’t mean what you said?” 

Griffith hesitates for a moment too long and Guts shakes his head in disbelief, feeling frustration bubbling up inside of him. “Fuck, just say what you mean!”

The words echo around the room in the ensuing stillness. Heart pounding in his chest from anger, frustration and some unnamable emotion, Guts stares at Griffith, and he stares back. 

“Fine,” Griffith says, breaking their gaze at last. He looks down at his knees, and opens his mouth to speak. 

“What I said to Princess Charlotte wasn’t…” Lifting his hands to comb through his hair, Griffith sighs wearily. “I wasn’t lying. The Hawks, they consider me their friend and leader, but what they see is an idealized, perfect version of me. In their eyes I can do no wrong, and I fear that if I shatter that illusion, it would…” He tightens his hold on his hair until it’s taut in his hands but Griffith doesn’t seem to notice any discomfort; his eyes are fixed on the air in front of him, his mouth screwed into a frustrated knot. “So many have sacrificed their lives for the sake of this dream, and the Hawks that are still alive are serving me without question because they believe in me so completely. I have to be a pillar for them, a beacon of light, so that they can sleep comfortably at night, content in their trust that everything was worth it.” 

Griffith bites his lip as though weighing his words, and the only sound in the room is the popping of the firewood before he continues. 

“There’s also a part of me that… that doesn’t want them to know how wicked I can be. I don’t want to see their faces if they were to witness even a glimpse of how ruthless and cruel I truly am. The things that I’ve done,” murmurs Griffith, his eyes seeking Guts’, “the things that I’ve made _you _do, and the filthy part of me that even enjoyed it; I don’t want them to see any of that.__

____

____

“So now I’m on a pedestal of my own design and it makes me unreachable to them. But it also makes them unreachable to me.”

Guts thinks of Casca then, and the note of resignation in her gaze whenever she looks at Griffith. The idea of her and Griffith ending up together always just flustered her until it made her sad, and Guts is beginning to understand why. A low resentment starts simmering in his belly but, before he can figure out who it’s directed towards, Griffith continues to speak. 

“But Guts, you’re—” He sounds so earnest, and Guts finds himself leaning forward despite himself. “You’re different. You’ve seen every facet of me; the good, the bad and the abhorrent, and you’ve still stuck by my side. Formality and rank don’t interest you and you make no effort to hide that about yourself,” he laughs softly, shaking his head, “and I value that more than you can know.”

He becomes quiet then, reverent, almost. “You are my only friend, and the dearest friend that I’ve ever had.” Griffith bites his lip and lowers his head, as though ashamed. “I thought you knew that.” 

There’s a long quiet moment, where Guts can only hear the sound of his own breathing. For the past few months Griffith’s words from that night had been running through his head, feeding into his insecurities and reinforcing his decision to leave the band. Now that resolve that seemed as steady as bedrock suddenly starts to crumble like sand, and he feels bereft. 

“But- but you said that those who live just to see the next day are unacceptable,” Guts sounds frenzied even to himself, but he can’t help it. “Who else could you have been talking about? It’s like you were describing me.” 

Looking up, Griffith inspects him with a soft, calculating look in his eye. It’s relieving to see the other looking more like his usual self, but it’s dampened by the apprehension Guts feels. 

“Guts, maybe three years ago that would have been true about you,” he says gently, “but not anymore. Is it?” 

Guts sits there and blinks, feeling like a fool as it dawns on him that Griffith is right. Ever since the Hawks came into his life and became his family, the way he lived had changed. He’d stopped staying alive simply because he wasn’t dead yet, and instead started living for something. For the Hawks. For Griffith. 

He feels equally embarrassed and annoyed that Griffith pointed it out so easily, like it was obvious. A small, nasty voice in his head whispers, but it was.

He finds himself wanting to cling to what he knew as facts just moments before, even as they slip through his fingers. “Alright, fine. Maybe—maybe that’s true,” Guts stutters, hating how bowled over he feels, “but that doesn’t change what you said about dreams. You said that your friend has to be your equal, and the only way you’d see someone as your equal was if they wanted a dream of their own.” He claps his open palm to his chest. “I don’t have a dream, Griffith. How can you say that I’m your dearest friend when I’m not even your equal?” 

“Is that why you want to leave? To pursue a dream?”

In the face of Griffith’s level tone, he feels loud and stupid and his neck heating up. “I- god dammit, just answer the question!” 

“You _are _my equal,” says Griffith imploringly, “I consider you my equal.”__

____

____

“In what way?”

“You’re—my _friend _-”__

____

____

“How?” Guts demands, “What you’re saying doesn’t match up, you keep changing what you mean-”

“I thought that we had a common goal. I thought your dream was to—help me achieve mine-”

“Then how am I any different from the rest of the Hawks? I’m still just following after you, serving you and your dream-”

“I don’t care!” 

Guts blinks, gaping at his outburst. 

“What?”

“I don’t care that you don’t have a dream,” says Griffith. His voice is low and coarse, the sound of wind through rusted pipes. “Even if you _did _live day to day for the sake of it, I wouldn’t care. I still want you by my side, and I still look at you and see my match. You are the exception to the rule,” he breathes long and deep, the air spilling out of him. “You’re the exception to _every _rule.”____

_____ _

_____ _

The space around them, between them, feels dense with an unspoken something, but Guts doesn’t know how to interpret the feeling. 

“What are you saying?” 

He looks at Griffith and is startled to find that the other man looks strung out like he’s never seen him. Griffith raises his hands, his fingers trembling like a leaf, and rubs at his face while breathing harshly through his nose. 

“I — I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m — God damn it.”

A long, uncomfortable silence descends where Griffith shakes and Guts watches, unmoored. He wants to go over and throw an arm around Griffith to comfort him, but for once Guts is afraid that someone else will reject his touch rather than the other way around. 

Seeing the other man like this is a revelation. Guts would never have predicted in his wildest dreams that Griffith would react this way in the face of his leaving, but the evidence is right there in front of him, blatant as banner over a fortress. He had seemed so distant, so unattainable that night, when Guts stood at the bottom of the staircase that reached up into the heavens, on top of which stood Griffith, speaking openly with the princess of Midland. 

But he realizes with startling clarity that he’s sitting not three yards from him. If he wanted, he could walk over and feel the tangible proof of Griffith’s presence. He’s right there, and he’s just a man, shaking like any other. 

And as he stares at this man, his friend, he knows that his resolve for leaving is gone. 

Up until this conversation he was riding a strong steed to destinations full of potential, but now that steed has been shot out from under him. He stares at his dead horse and scattered belongings and the great vast unknown that he was heading towards and suddenly fails to see the potential that he was so sure about. 

He wanted to leave to find a dream but did he have any idea where to even start? In the back of his mind he had some vague notion that he wanted to become stronger, but then how was that different from the way he was living before he joined the Hawks? 

How did people even come about having dreams? Griffith made it sound like dreams are things that people intrinsically form in their youth, something that made them excited, something inspiring. 

Try as he might, Guts can’t think of a single moment from his upbringing that fits that description. What he remembers is plenty of pain, anger, frustration, and a gut wrenching feeling of shame and betrayal that, even now, makes Guts want to grab his sword and crawl into the deepest darkest hole he can find. The closest thing he can put his finger on is his decision to live a life by the sword, to become stronger, but that was borne out of a desperation for safety. From the world. From…

Gambino. 

Guts shakes his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It’s difficult to even think his name without something ugly and painful trying to climb up his throat, but he had been happy, sometimes. Those tiny nuggets of care were infrequent and sporadic, but Guts coveted them like the finest gold coins a mercenary could win. All Guts had ever wanted was for Gambino to look at him and… give a shit about what happened to him.

Was that what he wanted, still? For people to give a shit about him? To look at him and feel worry when he was hurt, to have his back in a fight, to be proud of him when he won? 

He looks up at Griffith who sits with a curtain of silver hair covering his face, his shivers having calmed to the occasional tremor in his hands clasped in his lap. 

Doesn’t he have that already?

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s spoken. “I’ll stay.” 

Griffith freezes at his words. “Really?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 

For a moment, Guts doesn’t know what to say in the face of Griffith’s uncertainty. His decision had come on so suddenly that he’s not even sure how to justify it to another. “Yeah, I’ll. I’ll stick around,” he says lamely, rubbing his neck as his eyes drift to land anywhere but on Griffith. 

“…and you’re not just saying that to appease me. So that you can quietly sneak off later?” 

Guts stares at his boots, his heart in his throat. He thinks about the rest of the Hawks, his raiders, and even of Casca who he’s finally getting along with after so long. He thinks about how comfortable he’s been, living with and fighting alongside them these past three years, and has a hard time understanding why he felt so desperate to leave. And now, as he looks up and finds himself pinned under Griffith’s gaze, he feels the nebulous hole in his chest closing up, and his insecurities laying their heads down to rest. 

He meets Griffiths eyes. “No, I won’t leave.” 

There’s a clatter of boot heels against stone when Griffith bolts to his feet. His chest is heaving and he seems unable to look away from Guts as he makes an aborted movement towards him. The expression on his face is a peculiar one, and Guts is reluctant to call it relief. 

“Thank you,” he says, finally, “for- for hearing what I had to say.”

Guts can’t bear to see Griffith standing there alone, baring his heart, so he stands as well. He steps towards the shorter man, and slowly, hesitantly, wraps his arms around him. Griffith stiffens for a second but quickly returns the embrace with fervor, and it distantly occurs to Guts that this is probably the first time he’s ever initiated a hug like this. 

“Good thing you caught me when you did. Otherwise, I’d be gone by now.”

He feels Griffith’s damp breath against his neck and something slithers pleasantly up his spine. “…Were you really planning on taking off without saying anything to me? Did the others know?” 

“Yeah, that was the plan,” Griffith isn’t a particularly small man, but he feels delicate and precious in his arms, “I didn’t tell anyone, but I think Casca was suspicious.” He exhales through his nose and squeezes Griffith a little. “It just seemed easier if I went without a fuss, you know? But… I’m glad that you stopped me, too.” 

The two of them stand there for several more seconds, taking comfort in the solidity and warmth of each others bodies, but eventually they part. Guts feels awkward all of a sudden and struggles to meet Griffith’s eye, but judging by the way Griffith is looking at his boots, he isn’t alone in that feeling. 

“Well, I better get going.” Guts almost laughs at the way Griffith jolts and stares at him with wide eyes, alarmed. 

“What-”

“Turns out I have a bag to unpack.” 

This time, as Guts turns around to head back to his own chambers, the smile on Griffith’s face is undoubtedly one of relief.


	2. Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A feeling of contentment sits snug in the pit of Guts’ belly, like a stone warmed by a fire, and it almost lets him ignore the chill seeping into his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos on the last chapter! i'm ultimately writing this self indulgent fic for myself, but seeing other people enjoying it always brings a smile to my face :) plus it's great motivation! (*•̀ᴗ•́*)و ̑̑

His face feels warm. Guts stirs, turning towards the source of the heat and squinting uncomfortably into the ray of sun. Fuck, he must have fallen asleep. Heaving himself upright in his bed, he looks around his small quarters, feeling groggy in the way that only napping during daylight can cause. 

Dark shadows splash against the floor, and Guts thinks it must be sometime around noon. He forces his legs to take his weight, rubbing the crusty feeling out of his eyes, and ends up kicking the half unpacked bag laying at the foot of his bed. Swearing softly, he crouches down to gather his spilled belongings and sets about returning them to their rightful place around the room. It takes about five minutes. He’d really only packed the essentials, and by the time he’s done, all evidence of his attempted departure is gone. 

It’s a strange feeling. Leaving the Hawks had been an idea festering in the back of his mind for months, but now that inner turmoil seems to have lifted into the air and dissipated. In its place, something else shivers, small and unsettling. He grabs his sword and heads out into the chilly corridor of the barracks, a furrow in his brow. 

“Captain Guts!” A couple of his raiders, Hugh and Simon, come up to him. Hugh claps a hand on his shoulder and Guts can’t help the fond smile that crosses his face. “What’re you doing lugging your sword around for? We’re heading to the tavern, you should join us.” 

“The tavern?” Guts ribs, elbowing Hugh lightly in the side. “Ain’t it a little early to be getting shit-faced?” 

Hugh splutters, his face flushing, while Simon laughs at him. “We was just planning on gettin’ a meal, Captain,” Simon says, “hasn’t been a lot to do for us around here now that the war’s done, and all the snow besides.” 

Guts huffs a laugh. He’s not wrong, but his body feels restless and he’s itching to move. “Nah I’ll pass. You know I ain’t content unless I’m swinging this thing around,” he says, lifting his sword. 

The two look disappointed, and he feels a little bad so he adds, “I’ll join you later—keep a seat warm for me.” 

As he makes his way through the barracks he gets more friendly greetings from his raiders and other members of the Hawk. By the time he exits the castle, his cheeks are stretched in a wide smile.

The air is crisp and refreshing. Though the day is heavy with snow, the sun is pleasant and bright and Guts trudges over to a secluded corner of the castle grounds. He swings his sword until his muscles ache, good and familiar, and then he swings it more. The strain on his body distracts him. After a while he’s entirely absorbed in the rhythm of his sword, and his mind is peacefully blank. 

When he takes a break some time later, he’s worked up enough of a sweat that he can see steam rising up off of his skin and into the air. He turns, contemplating whether or not he wants to brave the cold without his jacket to avoid sweating on it, when he’s greeted with a snowball to the face. 

A childish voice says, “Oh no—” but Guts is already reaching down and packing as much snow as he can into his hands. “Wait, Guts I’m sorry, I was aiming for your back—augh!”

He grins, brushing the snow out of his eyes, and looks at little Rickert sprawled out in the snow. “That’s what you get, twerp,” Guts calls. 

Two large hands gently right the younger boy before ruffling his hair to get out the worst of it. “Thanks Pippin,” Rickert mumbles. 

Guts walks over to the two of them. “Hey, don’t mope. You started it.” 

“Yeah but yours was so much bigger than mine!” 

Guts only just bites his tongue on the dirty joke that springs to mind. “What’re you two doing out here anyway?” he asks instead. 

“Me and Pippin wanted to play in the snow, right Pippin?” Rickert cranes his neck to look at his silent companion who makes an ambiguous shrugging motion. 

“So he dragged you out here, huh?” Pippin nods and Guts chuckles at Rickert’s indignant “Hey!” 

“With aim like that, maybe you should be training instead of playing.” Even as he says the words, he’s shoving a lump of snow down the back of Rickert’s shirt while he shrieks, his voice cracking horribly. 

Rickert is something like the little brother of the entire band, so it’s easy to push aside any worries trying to encroach and tease the kid about his voice, seesawing between high pitched squeaks and a more rumbly timbre. It’s weird to think that, sooner rather than later, his voice is going to deepen permanently and he won’t sound like such a kid anymore. 

The rest of the afternoon is spent frolicking around in the snow. Pippin seems resigned to the fact that Rickert is using him as a buffer between himself and Guts, and the three of them are thoroughly soaked and shivering when the sun starts to crest over the wall of mountains in the west. A feeling of contentment sits snug in the pit of Guts’ belly, like a stone warmed by a fire, and it almost lets him ignore the chill seeping into his bones. 

Amidst Rickert’s complaints about the short daylight hours, the three of them stumble back towards the castle. Guts only just remembers to grab his sword, sitting mostly forgotten under a tree. 

It’s a while later, after he’s parted ways with his afternoon companions and gone and changed his clothes, that he makes the trek to the tavern. Night has fallen outside, and he can’t help but look for a flash of silver around every corner of the castle. Guts hasn’t seen the other man since their loaded conversation in the early hours of the morning, and while Rickert and Pippin had distracted him for a while, he finds his thoughts are now drawn consistently towards Griffith. 

The urge to go and find his friend is strong; it creeps up when he isn’t paying attention, compelling his legs to stray from his path towards town. But he’d promised Hugh and Simon, and that’s enough to ignore the feeling. Griffith isn’t going anywhere, he’s sure of that much. 

When he shoulders his way through the door of the tavern, a litany of cheers and laughter greet him like a warm wave. A large group of Hawks, much larger than Guts was expecting, have occupied the majority of the tables in the establishment. Harried looking barmaids weave between the rowdy men and Guts almost has half a mind to feel bad, but it’s beaten down by the smile he can feel spreading across his face. 

“Close the damn door, Captain!”

“You’re lettin’ the cold in!”

Rolling his eyes—amused despite himself—Guts does as he’s told. 

Simon spots him and waves him over, urges him to squeeze into a spot on the bench and shoves a well used tankard into his hands. Things get a little blurry after that. Guts is surrounded by the mass of friendly, if boisterous, bodies and voices, and the evening hours slip by him in a cloud of booze and good company. 

Even as he listens to a messily delivered joke from a raider he doesn’t recognize anymore with the way his vision is distorting, he can’t get rid of the sense that he’s balancing on a knife’s edge. There’s some skittering emotion quivering between his throat and his chest, and no matter how pleasantly loose he feels with a filled belly and a cup full of spiced wine, he can’t seem to get rid of it. 

Distantly, he manages to place the sensation. It’s the same feeling he would get after escaping death by the skin of his teeth. After years with the threat of a gruesome end hanging over his head that feeling has been beaten out of his psyche, but it used to keep him awake hours after a raid when he was still young. The feeling that everything had almost ended, that he’d only just barely avoided it because all the cards had happened to align. 

That he has only just dodged a catastrophic decision.

He tries to ignore it. It’s just a small thing, really, though he can feel it slowly ballooning the longer he spends time with his friends. His family. Fuck, he’d really been thinking of leaving this behind, hadn’t he?

He wants to talk to Griffith. If he can just sit down and talk to the man, Guts knows he can put this notion to rest. Tapping his leg against the stone floor, he keeps a hopeful eye on the door of the tavern. Hours pass and eventually the Hawks turn in, stumbling home while leaning drunkenly on each other. Griffith never shows. 

That night, it rains. 

*_*_*_*

As Guts sleeps, the stormy weather melts away the snow in great swaths, leaving ankle deep mud in its wake. The castle floors are a mess by midmorning; as reluctant as people are to venture outside, there are places to go and things to be done. Cleaning the floors just becomes another item on that list. 

Guts doesn’t remember how many mugs of wine he’d had the night before but, whatever the number, it was clearly a few too many if the throbbing behind his eyes is anything to go by. He’s unsure of what to do with himself, trying to stay out of the way of the servants bustling in the corridors. Training is his usual go-to, but then he looks out a window and eyes some carriage horses slop through the silt. The idea doesn’t hold much appeal. 

Maybe more sleep will do him some good. He turns around to head back to his quarters, but stops. For a moment he thinks he’s seeing things, because Griffith is walking towards him, not a stone’s throw away. The silver curls tumbling around his shoulders seem to gleam even in the hazy, overcast light of the day; he almost doesn’t look real. 

There’s a small part of Guts that thinks he must have dreamt the conversation with Griffith the previous morning. It had been a cyclone of emotions on both sides, and ultimately the other man had said everything that Guts had needed to hear to put his doubts at rest. Could it have been a dream fueled by wishful thinking?

But when Griffith stops beside him, he smiles — a small and hesitant thing, peeking through his pale lashes — and Gut’s uncertainty melts away like the snow, leaving behind a warm, if nebulous, feeling. 

“Guts,” Griffith murmurs. His tone is cautious, like he’s afraid of scaring off a wild animal. “It’s… good to see you again.” 

“We just saw each other yesterday,” says Guts dumbly. 

“That’s true,” his eyes crinkle in child-like amusement, “but it feels like it’s been longer.” 

Guts doesn’t know what to say to that. 

After a beat, Griffith continues. “I’ve actually come to find you to discuss something regarding the Hawks—or, I suppose I should be saying the White Phoenix Knights.” He raises a cheeky brow, and Guts chuckles. Knights. It’s hard to believe. 

Griffith reaches into an inner pocket of his coat and withdraws a scroll adorned with the King’s seal, already broken. “Midland lost many soldiers during the reclaiming of Doldrey, and the King wishes to start rebuilding our forces,” he says, unrolling the message and thumbing the signature at the bottom. “A notice for new recruits has already been posted, now that the snow has melted. As long as the rain holds off, the ground should be dry enough in a few days for training.” 

“So you—” they’re briefly interrupted by a young maid who seems to have tripped while shyly eyeing Griffith. Guts grins, shaking his head as Griffith helps her up, all gentleman-like. The girl shuffles away red as a flame. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “So you want me to train the rookies?”

Griffith transfers his gaze from the girl’s retreating back to Guts when he speaks, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Yes,” he says, leaning against the windowsill, “you and Casca. I’ve already informed her about it.” 

A wriggling sense of disappointment, completely irrational, tries to swell up inside him and Guts stamps it out. It doesn’t matter if he sought out Casca first, Griffith’s still here. 

“Yeah alright, sounds good.” He finds himself at a loss for words after that.

Thankfully, Griffith picks up the thread of conversation. “I should probably warn you,” he starts, “now that we’re officially knights in the eyes of the throne as well as the public, you’ll very likely have to deal with recruits from a, mm,” he purses his lips, then delicately says, “less humble crowd.” 

Guts looks blankly at Griffith for a few seconds, uncomprehending, until he understands. “You mean nobles.” It’s not a question, but it’s also not something he’s considered before. 

“Exactly. They’re the kind of people who have been handed anything they’ve asked for since they came into the world, and they’ll doubtless expect the same from you.” 

The thought of dealing with a bunch of stuffy nobles is not a pleasant one. Huffing through his nose, Guts says, “I get it. You don’t want me stepping on their toes too much, yeah?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.” Guts stares while Griffith flashes a little smirk at him. “True, they come from important families and their opinions hold some weight in Midland, but then, so do mine.” His eyes narrow and become dangerous, focusing on the middle distance. “I will not have some pompous fool make light of our army. If any of them try to start anything, treat them like any other of our previous recruits; let them know that we won’t tolerate any insubordination.” 

A grin cracks across Guts face, unbidden, at Griffith’s words. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Griffith was born a commoner, raised on the streets like the rest of them and with a healthy distaste for the aristocracy. No amount of finery or eloquence can cover up that foundation of his person. 

Guts looks up at the ceiling as though deep in thought, and sees Griffith glance at him in his periphery. 

“What’d the King say? Knighthood and peerage?” Guts lets his eyes slide back over to Griffith.“I ain’t an expert, but I think that means that we’re nobility too. If they wanna pick a fight, they’ll be facing another noble, same as them. Only difference is, _I_ know how to wipe my own ass.” 

The words manage to punch startled laughter out of Griffith, and something swoops in Guts’ chest at the sight. Guts can’t help but join in, though his laughter trails off in lieu of fondly watching the other. 

With twinkling eyes, Griffith glances up at him once his giggles die down. “Yes, that too.” 

They share several moments of comfortable silence, watching some servants carrying large buckets of steaming water down the corridor. The sight reminds Guts of his own breath clouding the air in front of him. He’d completely forgotten about the cold. 

“So, uh…” Guts turns to Griffith, only to find him already watching. There’s an almost imperceptible jump in the other’s jaw, like he wants to look away, but he doesn’t avert his gaze. 

Guts stares, then shakes himself. “So, was that all?” he asks. It comes out sounding more abrupt than he intended. 

“Oh.” Griffith does turn away then. “Well, I… suppose yes,” he shifts slightly, but then straightens his back and levels his stance. He faces Guts once more and opens his mouth, pauses, then finally speaks. “Would you walk with me?”

Guts pushes away from the wall he was leaning against, faintly relieved. “Sure. Where’re we going?”

Shrugging, Griffith says, “Doesn’t matter, really.” At Guts’ inquisitive glance, he goes on. “I won’t be missed for another hour or so. It’s nice to stretch my legs.” 

_You already stretched your legs, walking here to find me_ , Guts doesn’t say. Instead, he matches pace with Griffith as the two of them walk leisurely down the stone hallways of the castle. They talk about any topic that comes to mind until they’re avidly discussing the merits of lances versus longswords on horseback. The hour passes by in a flash. 

When Griffith ultimately leaves for whatever meeting he’s expected at, his gaze lingering for a moment before turning away, Guts feels light. He pivots on his heel, heading in the opposite direction, and whistles a butchered tune as he walks away. 

There’s not a single worry on his mind. 

*_*_*_*

“Everybody line up!” 

The day is crisp but dry. As hoped, the sky withheld any more rain over the past few days, and the ground is packed hard, covered in frost.

Casca stands behind a table that Guts himself had carried out onto the field. Sitting in a chair next to her is Judeau, one of the few literate Hawk members besides Griffith and Casca, and on the tabletop in front of him is a long piece of parchment. All of the members of the Hawks — bar Griffith and those who have retired since the end of the war — are present, as well as two hundred or so additional men. The new recruits. They stand in a haphazard line in front of the table, shuffling to keep the cold at bay.

“Each one of you will write down your full title, age, and place of residence,” Casca bellows, so that she can be heard by all. “If you cannot write, Sir Judeau here will transcribe for you.”

The line lurches ahead all at once, and Guts can already see the mess that would result in. He steps forward, towering over the majority of the men lined up, and glowers. “One at a time,” he growls, and feels grim satisfaction when they cower at the sight of him. Things go smoothly after that. 

A while later, Casca sidles up to Guts and leans against a mural tower wall next to him. “What do you think?” she asks. Guts looks at her and she nods towards the shambling row of men. 

“Hard to say,” he replies, voice low. “You should make sure they actually know how to swing a sword. Some of these guys look like they’d fall over if you blow on ‘em too hard.” 

“Please, you’re exaggerating.” 

“You think so? Look at that kid,” he gestures towards a boy in line, though he might not be much younger than Guts himself now that he gets a good look. It’s easy to see the high quality of his clothes, even from this distance, and he’s wearing entirely unsuitable shoes for such an occasion. “He probably needs help sitting down when he eats.” 

Casca scoffs, but is silent for a moment. “Fine, maybe him,” she relents, with a wry smile. 

“Dunno, half these guys look like noble blood.” Some of the men have even brought their own armor and weapons—the kind designed more for show than functionality—despite the recruitment notice having stated that basic supplies would be provided. “You sure got your work cut out for you.”

“Excuse me?” Incredulous, Casca sends a glare up at him. “Last time I checked, Griffith put the _both of us_ in charge of training these soldiers.” 

Guts feigns surprise. “Well it just looks like you got everything under control. I was actually gonna go take a nap over there—”

Casca elbows him, hard, and it digs into his ribs. 

“Ow! Fuck, woman!” Casca looks unrepentant, though she slaps his shoulder lightly when they attract some curious stares. 

“Lower your voice,” she hisses. 

Rubbing at his side, Guts grumbles, “Yeah well, that fucking hurt. Why are your elbows so sharp?” 

“You deserved it,” she says promptly, and Guts can’t exactly say he disagrees. 

Eventually, names fill the piece of parchment to the very margins, and Casca steps up to the group of soldiers. At her pointed look, Guts rolls his eyes and steps forward as well. 

“I’m going to split you into two groups,” Casca hollers, “so give me a show of hands. Who here has experience wielding a sword?” The majority of the men before them raise their arms. Some of them do so with confidence, while others are slower. “For those of you who didn’t raise your hand, make your way to the practice dummies over there,” she says, pointing downfield. “Sir Judeau and Sir Rickert will join you shortly.” 

About a quarter of the men break off from the central group, shuffling in a way that points to some embarrassment. Most of them are younger and fairly slight in build. 

“And what of the rest of us?” Guts looks back towards the remaining recruits to see a man wearing a lavish, embroidered tunic addressing him. 

“Uh,” says Guts, eloquently, before Casca cuts in. 

“The rest of you will join Sir Guts and I. Follow me.” 

Guts scrunches up his nose at the title, but moves to follow Casca without complaint. That is, until the nobleman speaks again.

“Who are you, exactly?” 

Turning around, Guts lowers his brow and stares at the man. “I’m the captain of the raiders. Guts,” he says, slowly. 

The man starts, eyes him nervously, then flicks on a simpering smile. “Forgive me, Sir, but I was referring to the girl.” 

He can feel his eyebrows climbing but before he can think of a retort, Casca is there, shoving herself in the man’s space. “What did you just say?” she snaps. 

The man stumbles back a step, but catches himself and straightens. He tries to look down his nose at her, but she’s actually slightly taller than him so the effect is mostly lost. 

“I said,” the nobleman enunciates, words dripping with superiority, “who are you? I came here because I had heard of the Phoenix General’s accomplishments. You’re clearly not him.” There’s some murmuring of agreement and shifting of feet from the men behind him. 

In an act of saint-like patience that Guts can’t relate to, Casca takes a calming breath. “He had a prior engagement. I am Dame Casca, his second in command,” she says evenly. “You weren’t actually expecting Lord Griffith himself to oversee the training of new recruits, were you?” That shuts the noble up, and he screws his mouth up as he takes a step back. Guts fails to hide a grin. 

Casca has the men pair up with veteran Hawk members and instructs them to spar while she and Guts walk around, giving pointers or switching around partners to better match levels. They’d all been given practice swords with dulled edges, some of the nobles muttering at the well worn states the blades were in. Guts didn’t care if they could see him rolling his eyes. 

Soon enough, the air fills with the clanking of metal against metal, and Guts feels right at home. 

Most of them are about as good as Guts expected, which is to say, not very. They handle their swords with clumsy postures, and he can tell that most of the Hawk members are going easy on them. It’s usually like this with new recruits; skill comes with practice and experience. _Mostly practice now though,_ Guts thinks, _since there aren’t any wars to fight in._

That being said, several of the soldiers actually show some ability. A young man, maybe a couple years older than Guts if he were to guess, manages to push back one of their more senior members. A few more hold their own against their opponents, and Guts aches to jump in and feel the iron of his own blade reverberating in his hands. Instead, he hands out gruff compliments and pointers where they’re due. 

“Be silent, you wench!” 

Guts spins in the direction of the voice, high on alert. A large circle of fighters have halted, in the center of which stands Corkus, Casca, and the same nobleman from before. He seems to be the one who’d spoken. 

Unfortunately, he goes on. “I do not need advice on how to handle a weapon from some peasant girl who doesn’t know her place!” 

Corkus bristles and steps forth angrily. “Why you—”

He halts only because Casca pushes him back with a steady hand. Her gaze is steely, but there’s hatred simmering just beneath the surface. “What is your name, sir?” she asks. The word ‘sir’ sounds like a curse on her tongue. 

The nobleman is quiet for a long moment. Then, he raises himself up and spits, “Baron Bartelmeu.” 

“If you are to join the ranks of the White Phoenix Knights, then you _will_ understand that I am your commanding officer, and will address me as such.”

Bartelmeu tries to stare her down but she stands steadfast, unblinking. Scoffing, he leans back. “I’d heard that there was a female warrior among the ranks,” he says loudly, “but to learn that the woman is a commanding officer, ruling over men…! The very idea is ludicrous.” Here, he turns around towards the other men, spreading his arms wide in an attempt to appeal to them. “Any man here who bows down to the word of a woman is no man at all. Tell me, friends, do you truly think that this woman, this _girl,_ is capable of handling a sword, let alone instructing troops on the battlefield?” 

Some of the newcomers seem to be nodding along and a riled murmur spreads among them. Others are too busy glancing apprehensively at the faces of the established members of the Hawk who look anything but pleased. 

It’s an understandable sentiment, since Guts feels a swell of indignant rage pressing out against the inside of his skull. 

Everything he hates about nobility seems to have conveniently manifested in the man spouting vitriol to the crowd, and Guts’ fingers itch. He hasn’t had an excuse to really rough anyone up in far too long. He wants to grab this pampered, selfish nobleman by the throat and lift, squeeze the life out of him for insulting Casca and, by extension, the rest of the Hawk, and he wants to see the light leave his eyes the way he’s seen in thousands on the battlefield. 

It turns out he doesn’t have to, though, because Casca is there. 

She’s silent and quick, and Bartelmeu almost bumps into her. When he notices her, she shoves him back, hard, and draws her sword in the same motion. 

“You’re right,” she says, and her words stop Bartelmeu in his tracks, his mouth hanging open mid-gripe. Guts frowns, confused. 

“It’s only natural for a commander to give a demonstration of their skill. If you think me so _incompetent_ , then I suggest you see for yourself. Draw your sword.” 

Like a fool, Bartelmeu looks around as though unsure whether Casca is talking to him. Or maybe he finds her challenge preposterous and is looking for sympathizers in the crowd. It doesn’t matter either way. Casca doesn’t give him the chance to back out. Bartelmeu hardly has time to bring up his sword up to deflect her blow, and he flings himself backwards with a yip, putting some distance between them. 

He screeches, “You must be out of your mind—!” 

“Defend yourself.” 

Bartelmeu obeys only because Casca is on him once more. Her sword flashes in a flurry of strikes, the screech of metal echoing over their heads.

The nobleman is not as hopeless with a blade as Guts had initially assumed. He manages to block all of Casca’s strikes, but his movements all seem slow and clumsy next to hers, which are sure and severe. The whole time Bartelmeu is on the defensive, driven back against her relentless pursuit. 

He’s sweating, heaving great lungfuls of air when she pauses. Her skin is dry and her breaths even. “Your form is sloppy,” she spits. Her words are accompanied by another thrust of her sword and Bartelmeu only avoids it by knocking himself sideways, onto one knee. 

“Get up!” 

It’s almost like he’s forgotten to be angry between the barrage of attacks because Bartelmeu stumbles to his feet without a word. He’s trembling with exhaustion. 

Casca, too, seems tired of the duel. She lunges forward for the final time, and with a deft maneuver and a flick of her wrist, Bartelmeu’s sword flies out of his fingers in a violent spiral. A few of the surrounding men jump out of they way of the projectile, and the blade lands, lodging itself into the frozen ground.

Bartelmeu is shocked to silence, staring at his sword, then staring at the one pressed against his throat. A small, weak noise escapes him before his knees buckle and he goes sprawling, landing on his ass. Casca follows him, the tip of her blade not an inch from his jugular. “Careful,” she says when he struggles, “this sword hasn’t been dulled.” 

A strong, frigid gust of wind blows through the field, and Guts realizes that not a single soldier is making a sound. 

The silence is broken when Bartelmeu, face red and blotchy with humiliation, bursts out, “How dare you! You, you—”

“Wench?” Casca supplies helpfully. 

“You bitch! You’re nothing but pathetic peasants with delusions of grandeur,” howls Bertelmeu, a crazed look in his eye. “All of you! You’re naught but placeholders, the best that the Phoenix General could find in an otherwise useless lot! You’re not fit for _knighthood_ ,” he spits the word. “You’ll all be replaced one way or another, by men of merit, with noble blood. Mark my words!” 

It seems that Casca has heard enough because she presses her sword forward enough to draw some blood. Bartelmeu finally succumbs to quiet with a garbled whimper. 

“Listen to me carefully,” she says, and though her voice is low, it carries. “Every member of the White Phoenix Knights earned their position and knighthood through hard work and dedication. If you aren’t willing to put in that same commitment, then you’re free to go.” 

Bartelmeu huffs, a last attempt at dignity. “You would be honored to have me.” 

Casca withdraws then, though she gives one final shove to his chest for good measure. “This is the army that ended the great war with 5000 men, where you and your forefathers floundered for a century. We don’t want you.” 

She then turns to address the rest of the new recruits, and roars. “All of you, hear me well! In a week’s time, another recruitment meeting will be held. You have a week to decide whether you have what it takes to become a part of the White Phoenix Knights. If the mere thought of serving under a commoner—or a woman— turns your stomach, I suggest you stay home; you’re not worth our time.” 

Before anyone can speak up in retaliation she barks, “Dismissed!” 

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. There’s a second where it seems as though the men are planning on ignoring her, but eventually they shuffle around, disgruntled, and slowly trickle out of the congregated group of soldiers until only the Hawks are left. Casca stares after them. When the last of the men turn the corner, her shoulders droop and a huge breath leaves her all at once. 

Guts recalls a distant memory from the days after Gambino but before the Hawks, when he saw a kindly tavern owner step out of the backdoor of her establishment and immediately get accosted by strays. They’d all flocked around her, jumping and nearly knocking over the poor woman. He’d lunged forward, ready to come to the woman’s aid, but had realized that the dogs were simply happy to see her.

The way the Hawk members swarm around Casca reminds him keenly of that moment. They all converge on her, hollering and whooping her name, and the unyielding commander is set aside for a moment as Casca lights up like a tomato. 

“Ha! Did you see his _face_?” trills Corkus. “Bastard didn’t know what hit him!”

Judeau makes his way through the joyful crowd, Rickert trailing behind him. “What’s going on?” he asks, hands on his hips as he looks around curiously. “I saw all the newbies leaving so I dismissed my group. What happened?” 

“Casca kicked a noble’s ass!”

Both of Judeau’s eyebrows go up, and he glances at Casca. “Really?”

Embarrassment and pleasure war on Casca’s face as various Hawk members stumble over themselves to recount the past ten minutes, physical reenactments and all. Guts takes the opportunity to slink up behind her and clap her soundly on the shoulder. She yelps and whirls around, gifting him with a scowl. It’s absolutely tame compared to what he would have received just a couple months ago.

“Look at you, telling off nobles like you do it every day,” he says with an easy grin. 

Casca frowns, her mouth scrunching. Her cheeks flush as embarrassment wins out. “Do you think I was too harsh? The whole point of this was to add to the army, not scare them away… But God, he was just- he was such a—”

“Piece of shit?” 

“Yes!” Casca erupts, her hands tensed into claws in front of her as though she’s throttling an invisible neck. “He was such an ass! Plenty of people— _including_ Hawks—have given me trouble in the past because I’m a woman, but no one’s been so insufferable about it.” 

“Don’t worry, you did good,” Guts says. The platitudes feel awkward in his mouth but he pushes forth. “Griffith wouldn’t want a guy like that in the Hawks anyway. Can’t stand those types.” 

Casca sighs. Crossing her arms, she leans back on her heels and looks up at the sky. “I hope you’re right. Griffith is under so much scrutiny these days. He’s might be the savior of Midland, but he’s also going to be held to higher standards than before. I can’t be responsible for hindering him.” 

Guts follows her gaze and looks up at the clouds. They’re huge and puffy, and look solid enough to take a bite out of. “You don’t think Griffith’s up to it?” asks Guts.

“What?” Casca snaps. “No of course he is!” It’s impossible to stop the grin that spreads across Guts’ face at her scandalized tone. “I’m just saying that we all need to be more… _aware_ of our behavior. Which, by the way, includes you.” 

The smile falls from his face. “Wait, what? The hell did I do?” 

“You’re a noble now, you know. If you don’t act like it how do you expect anyone to take us seriously?” 

“I think they’ll take me seriously enough when they see what I can do with this.” For no other reason than to prove a point, he hefts his sword from its sheath on his back and drives the blade into the earth. He regrets it a second later when he realizes that he needs to clean it now. Casca’s wholly unimpressed expression doesn’t help. 

“Everything we do reflects on Griffith.” Casca doesn’t look angry exactly, at least not the way she would have before when antagonism was all there was between them, but her frustration is clear. “Just being strong on the battlefield isn’t enough anymore.” 

Guts looks away, annoyed. He’s not quite sure at what; there’s a knot in his head but he’s not in the mood to untangle it, and the two of them get quiet. The Hawks chattering away keeps the silence between them from cooling, but it’s a close thing. 

Then Casca says, “Griffith.” 

It’s a little embarrassing how quickly Guts finds himself scanning the surrounding ambulatory at the sound of the name. He spots the glimmer of that silver hair, bright against the shadows of the corridor. Griffith is partially hidden behind a column, and the sight of his friend feels like a balm on the skin, even as a familiar soft gallop thrums in Guts’ chest. He shifts from foot to foot. Has it gotten warmer?

“Why isn’t he coming over?”

Guts glances at Casca with a start. He clears his throat. “He probably just got here.” 

All of a sudden he feels restless. Guts feels exposed, somehow, excitement pulsing through his body at the sight of Griffith while surrounded by the Hawks. He elbows Casca lightly in her side. “You have the list of names, right?” 

“The registry? Yeah.” 

Guts nods towards Griffith, and he sees Griffith move in response. Raising a hand, perhaps. He quickly looks back at Casca. “You should take it to him. Fill him in on everything.” 

“Oh,” says Casca, and she turns a little pink. “I… we should probably clear up first, though. The registry can wait.” 

“Nah, come on. I’ll get started on that with the others. Go talk to him.”

She’s still for a moment, then nods and makes her way over to Griffith, who is in turn walking in their direction. Without waiting to see their interaction, Guts turns to the Hawks and directs them in gathering up equipment and disassembling practice dummies. 

When he sneaks a glance over his shoulder, he’s surprised to see Casca standing in front of Griffith, shoulders hunched. Guts can’t hear any words from this distance, but he sees Casca nod once before storming off towards the castle. The whole time, Griffith looks to the side instead of at her, and that doesn’t change as she retreats. 

Guts frowns. 

Griffith starts slightly when Guts stops in front of him. A small smile curves over his pale face but drops a moment later when he sees Guts’ expression. 

“What did you say to her?” Guts presses. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Casca. She looked upset.” 

A peculiar expression twists Griffith’s features. “I didn’t say anything that should upset her,” he mutters, sounding uncharacteristically defensive. 

“Well then why’d she get all… huffy?” 

“Oh, you know how she can be.” 

Guts is surprised at the swell of irritation he feels at the others dismissive tone. “And how’s that, exactly?”

Griffith blinks up at him, blue eyes wide. “I…”

“You gotta know how much she cares about you, but you can be kind of a prick to her.” Guts is sort of astonished at the words coming out his own mouth, but it also feels good to speak so plainly. “It ain’t right.” 

There’s a suspended moment where they stare at each other. Then Griffith looks away, his lips pursed into a small line and a furrow in his brow. “Fine,” he says, and he sounds a little flustered. “When I next see her, I’ll apologize.” 

“Yeah, uh. Good.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you were so close.” 

“We’re not…” Guts pauses. He laughs lightly and feels the tension leave his shoulders. “Well I guess we’re something like friends these days.” 

“I see.” 

“I thought you’d be happy about that. It’s about time, right?” 

It’s silent for so long that Guts thinks Griffith didn’t hear him. “You’re right,” Griffith says, finally. He lifts his head and smiles serenely, and a fist beats against the inside of Guts’ ribcage. “It’s a good thing.” 

They’re interrupted by the sound of one, then many voices calling Griffith’s name. Guts looks over and sees the Hawks all waving in their direction. “Looks like you’ve been spotted. Bet they’d be happy to talk to you.” He looks at Griffith. “You alright?”

Griffith just nods, and follows his lead as he walks back towards the welcoming calls of the Hawks. 


	3. Realizations - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps he had been deliberately fooling himself, stumbling around in a confused fog of his own making so that he wouldn’t come to the obvious conclusion. He’s starting to suspect that this is a common occurrence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the (cough two and a half month cough) long wait, but here's the next chapter! Thanks to the lovely comments and support, I always go back and re-read them when I get stuck haha. I'm nothing if not a slow-ass writer, but I'm very dedicated to this story so I intend to see it to the end! 
> 
> Also, shoutout to [bthump](https://bthump.tumblr.com/), who not only writes awesome meta posts about Berserk, but who has also been a great friend and awesome sounding board to bounce ideas off of (ㅅ´ ˘ `)♡~~ you continue to inspire <3

Griffith is daydreaming. 

The sun shines in from the windows behind him, and it illuminates his hair into a brilliant halo. With his regal nose and his lashes lowered, he looks the very picture of a saintly noble, but his mind is far from the current proceedings. 

Rather, it’s fixed upon that scene during dawn, just over a week ago now. The morning when Griffith had convinced Guts to stay. 

He finds it difficult to stop himself from revisiting the memory despite his best efforts. It’s impossible to leave the dizzying kaleidoscope of sensations alone; the pounding of his heart when he saw Guts through his window, dressed for the cold and with a bag slung over his shoulder. The ice that gripped him when he realized Guts was leaving. 

Later, the pounding of his heart for an entirely different reason. 

Someone raises their voice and Griffith blinks, shifts subtly in his seat. He resolutely keeps his eyes from glancing at the surrounding council members; that would only bring attention to his momentary inattentiveness.

Instead Griffith raises his head calmly and looks towards the far end of the table. At the head of it the King sits in a chair closer resembling a throne, dressed head to toe in opulent drapery. Two council members squabble in front of him. 

“We are in the midst of winter! Heading out now, even for the sake of aid, is a foolhardy endeavor.” 

“Nobody suggested departing this very moment, only as soon as is feasible.” 

“And when would _you_ suggest that be?”

Without missing a beat, Lord Laban responds. “Early spring, at the latest.” 

A quiet murmur spreads among the council members and Lord Reimfred shakes his head. “That would be in, what, a month and a half's time?” His rather impressive mustache bristles with his dubious expression. “We have been fortunate enough to have light snowfall in recent days, but who is to say that such favorable conditions will last? It would be far wiser to wait.”

“And we must take into account the provisions and supplies necessary for such an undertaking,” adds Earl Guillemin. “The villages neighboring the Doldrey fortress have not been properly tended to in decades. They could be in any manner of disrepair.” 

“That is why we must send help as soon as possible,” Laban says adamantly, his hand set firmly on the tabletop. “These villagers have been neglected and abused by years of war, and it is our obligation to assist them.” 

Yet another council member pipes up. “How much aid could we really give? By the end of the winter season, most of our stores will have been depleted. We may not have enough to spare for charity.” 

“Charity?” Incredulous, Laban glares at the man who spoke. “Forgive me Lord Abel, but do you hear yourself?”

Griffith stifles any twitch of his lips at Laban’s tone, but is amused all the same. 

Before an argument can break out, an unlikely voice joins the conversation with a nervous little cough. Minister Foss opens his mouth but stops, his eyes flickering fearfully to Griffith. Griffith simply smiles. 

“Minister Foss?” he prods. 

Foss startles, and clears his throat again. “Ah, yes. If I may; winter has been mild yet, and certainly none of us are going hungry. Surely we can each set aside a small portion to go towards the relief effort…?”

“I concur,” says Laban, “we have had a plentiful harvest this past autumn, with an abundance of dry wheat and grain in our stores. It should be more than enough to tide these villages over while they rebuild.” 

“We have neglected to discuss the men going out on this journey,” Guillemin says, almost sounding bored with the proceedings. “Short-staffed as we are, I fear that we may not have the personnel to oversee such an important—and lengthy—undertaking.”

Griffith sees his opening. “I would like to volunteer,” he offers smoothly. A prideful thing in his chest swells when the council table falls silent in the wake of his words, and he takes the opportunity to continue. “As Lord Guillemin pointed out, the kingdom lost a great many during the reclaiming of Doldrey. Our forces are limited, and so a delicate balance must be struck; the castle cannot be left undefended, even in this time of peace, but a sparse convey for the transported provisions could be vulnerable to theft.”

He pauses and looks directly at the King. “I would propose a group of my White Phoenix Knights, lead by myself and an officer of my choosing, as the escort. My troops are accustomed to traveling in harsh weather conditions, thus leaving in early spring should pose little danger, and I am confident enough in their skill that a modest entourage should be more than sufficient to see the supplies delivered safely.”

“How many men would you need?” the King asks, finally speaking. 

“I would have to discuss the specifics of the journey to know definitively, but a few hundred should suffice. The rest of my troops will go towards guarding the castle along with the Arklow Knights.” Here, he nods at Laban who smiles and tilts his head in return. Another hum circulates the council members, but most of them sound appreciative of Griffith’s decisiveness. “Additionally,” he resumes, “this expedition presents an opportunity for further recruitments for his Majesty’s forces while sending aid to those far from the capitol.”

“Killing two birds with one stone, as it were,” the King muses, leaning back in his seat and stroking his beard. 

“Indeed, Sire.”

“Having the Savior of Midland himself visit these villages would be good for morale, I would imagine.” Laban says, almost coaxing. Though his face remains kindly blank, he seems pleased. 

The room is blessed with a moment of quiet, and Griffith enjoys a beam of sun warming his back as he waits for the King to arrive at the conclusion so neatly laid out for him. It’s not a long wait. 

Laban catches up with Griffith later, once the council room has emptied. 

“Lord Griffith,” he calls, and Griffith stops, forcing a pleasant smile as he turns. 

“I wanted to express my gratitude,” Laban continues. “I’m not sure if my plan would have been approved if I hadn’t had your support during the meeting.” 

“Not at all. It is our duty to ensure the wellbeing of the citizens of Midland,” Griffith says, lowering his eyes humbly. “One way or another, help would have been provided.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” Laban glances around, then lowers his voice and leans in a touch. “I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but most of the men in that room are self serving fools. If sending aid meant that they wouldn’t have enough food to throw scraps to to the pigs every evening, then I’d wager that most of them would rather not send any aid at all.” 

Griffith has no doubt. “You speak harshly of them.” 

“Well I figure somebody has to, or nothing would get done around here.” 

Under the guise of polite laughter, Griffith scrutinizes the other man. He sits on the fence between young and middle aged— though he’s certainly not old for a council member— and his dark hair is combed back in a fashion that indicates an appreciation for practicality. There are the beginnings of lines around his eyes and mouth, but they’re kind.

Up to this point Griffith has been holding the nobles of Midland at arm’s length. Although many of them fawn over him, even more despise his very existence. They’re not mutually exclusive, either. He’s exceedingly aware that, were he to let any one of them too close, they could easily slip a blade between his ribs. 

Laban is a rarer breed, though. He seems to actually have a moral backbone and doesn’t exhibit much interest in how his plans would benefit him personally. It appears that, against all odds, he’s a good person. 

Appearances can be deceiving, of course. 

Either way, it may be useful to keep Laban in his inner circle. A tentative ally, so to speak. Valuable for support that Griffith can count on, but easy to renounce if the situation called for it. Another tool at his disposal. 

Like a stone dropping from the sky, a thought occurs to him. 

This is the rest of his life. 

Midland isn’t one in a long line of fortresses that he and the Hawks have defended as mercenaries; it’s the end goal. There is no moving on from here. He is a knight, a noble, and Laban isn’t a face that Griffith can leave behind in a few months— rather, he’s very likely going to be Griffith’s colleague for the foreseeable future. It’s entirely possible that he will watch this man turn old and grey over the years, as Griffith himself does the same. 

Objectively, he knows this, had _always_ known this, but… it hadn’t quite sunk in until this very moment. 

The concept rattles him enough that he doesn’t hear Laban’s next words, and looks up at him blankly. 

“Are you alright, Lord Griffith?” 

With a small, self deprecating huff of laughter, Griffith says, “My apologies. I’m afraid I have a lot on my mind.” 

“Of course. I’m sure you have a busy schedule, so I’ll take my leave. Good day to you, sir.” 

Griffith can’t say he’s not relieved. “And to you.”

Once alone, he allows himself to loosen his posture, lean against a pillar and sighs. 

He looks up at the high, vaulted ceilings of the corridor. The permanence of the stone, darkened with age, feels stifling, and he finds himself pining for days past when the Hawks were free to roam where they wished. He misses the nights spent around blazing campfires, under the stars, surrounded by rowdy laughter and spilling drinks. There was an exciting momentum in those days, the sense of constantly striving forward and taking what you wanted from the jaws of the enemy.

That momentum still exists, but it’s been distilled into different forms, hiding behind loaded pleasantries and court politics. There are aspects of it that Griffith enjoys and just as many that irritate him, but at the end of the day it’s all in service of his dream; those blinding ivory spires towering above him, almost close enough to touch. 

But sometimes…sometimes they loom. 

He breathes through the lump in his throat and straightens. 

The library. He’ll go to the library and do some research on agriculture and the type of land the surrounding villages inhabit. There are specialists for this kind of thing, but gathering knowledge never hurts. 

Frigid wind snaps his hair to the side when he steps into an open arcade, and he wants to take back his former sentiment and retreat to the warmth of his chambers. The sight of Guts is the only thing that stops him from doing so. 

The arcade overlooks a patchy bit of lawn, facing the eastern wall that separates the royal grounds from the city of Wyndham. Guts stands right where the cast shadow from the castle gives way to sunlit grass. 

From his perch, Griffith has a clear view of the top of his dark head while he swings his sword, and Griffith’s cheeks dimple at his predictability. 

It always astounds Griffith how impervious Guts seems to be towards the cold. His bare arms, bronze and glistening, bulge and tense with the rhythm of his movements despite the bitter temperatures that grace them. He looks entirely unbothered. Griffith, in contrast, is shivering in his boots. 

His gaze is drawn back down towards his captain when he sees Guts waving up at him. 

“What’re you doing freezing your ass off out here?” he hollers, either oblivious or uncaring of any potential audience. 

“I’m not the one underdressed.”

Guts shifts, squints, then tilts his ear in Griffith’s direction. “What?”

“I said—”

“Can’t hear you! The wind’s too loud!”

“I said,” Griffith calls, abandoning decorum and leaning over the railing, “that you’re the one underdressed!” 

Guts looks down at his attire—sturdy, well tailored trousers and a short-sleeved undershirt—and shrugs. “Sure, but you get cold easy.”

Inexplicably, that brings a smile to Griffith’s face. 

He misses the low creak of hinges over the whistling of the air and it isn’t until he sees movement in his periphery that he realizes that a scullery maid is walking by, shooting him an odd look. 

The following scramble to straighten his posture is distinctly undignified. 

Faintly embarrassed, he nods politely towards the woman. That only makes her shuffle away faster. He slumps against the stone rails when she disappears behind the doors on the far end of the arcade, but turns at Guts’ laughter. 

For half a second embarrassment rises up to Griffith’s cheeks and he’s almost offended. But as he looks at Guts’ delighted expression, the humiliation drains away leaving a warmth that has him giggling into the wind. 

“It’s too cold to be talking out here,” Griffith says eventually, once the two of them have calmed down and a harsh shiver reminds him that it is, indeed, winter. “I was heading to the library, won’t you join me?”

Guts scratches the shell of his ear and tilts his head. “Alright.” 

“Then I’ll meet you there.” 

“Sure. Uh, where is it?” 

*_*_*_*

The royal library inhabits an ancient and vast space with soaring vaulted ceilings. Despite the huge panes of glass inlaid into the stone walls, the air is stagnant with dust, the tall shelves packed to the brim with leather bound tomes dividing the otherwise spacious room into narrow, dim rows. Griffith loves it. 

He’s spent a culmination of hours, perhaps even days amongst these stacks of books, absorbing every drop of knowledge available. There’s something incredibly intimate about the nooks he carves out for himself here, private and comfortable. 

Well, usually. 

As he stares down at the manuscript in front of him, he finds that focusing on the actual content of the page is near impossible. He’s keenly aware of Guts sitting a few feet away and, even without looking at the other man, he can sense his awkward energy. His massive sword— which, naturally, he had brought along— keeps moving about as Guts rests it against a bookcase, then on the ground by his feet, and finally on his lap. 

Griffith opens his mouth to say something, but then their eyes meet and his mind stalls. He smiles and quickly looks down at the page again, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

Without the barrier of a stone railing and additional floor, the space between them had abruptly become stilted, full of aborted sentences and anxious silence. It’s baffling. One of the reasons he looks forward to Guts’ company is because of how _easy_ it is to be around him, so why is it that Griffith can’t think of a single thing to say now that they’re alone together? 

It hadn’t been like this just a few days ago. Things had been… tentative, between them, but amicable. Good. Like things were getting back on track. 

Guts is his friend. If nothing else, that had been made clear between them, hadn’t it? 

“So, uh… what’re you reading?”

Griffith snaps his head up and swallows before responding. “Just some documents on agriculture.” 

“Agri—what?”

“Farming.” 

“Oh.” Guts coughs softly, and looks to the side. “Right.” 

Quiet settles again, oppressive. 

Griffith taps his fingers against paper, eyes flickering back and forth between the other man and the book he isn’t reading. He’d expected Guts to ask for more information, but the thread of conversation has been entirely dropped and too much time has passed to casually pick it back up. 

There’s nobody else in the library, but his neck feels hot with phantom stares. 

“Is it hard?”

Pulse jittering, Griffith smiles serenely. “Excuse me?”

“You know…” Guts is mumbling, avoiding eye contact. “reading and writing, and all that. Is it hard?” 

Griffith blinks. “Well, no. Not once you’ve gotten used to it.” Guts is silent, and Griffith carefully adds, “Are you… interested in learning?”

For a little while Guts says nothing, working at the bindings on the handle of his sword with a restless thumb. 

“I dunno,” he says, finally. “Just something Casca said…” 

Involuntarily, an unpleasant churning starts up in Griffith’s stomach at the mention of her name. He hasn’t apologized to her yet. It’s been four days since Guts had told him off about the whole thing, and it’s not that Griffith hasn’t been thinking about it, trying to find the right moment to apologize, but, well, he’s been busy. 

There’d been a couple of times when he found himself alone with Casca. In both instances she’d been quiet towards him, timid almost, like she was convinced he was still upset with her. And both times, Griffith had felt tense and annoyed by it. Before he could bring himself to apologize, he’d remember a previous engagement and would depart, ignoring the niggling feeling that berated him in the back of his mind. 

That same feeling plagues him now, and he sneaks a nervous glance Guts’ way like a child, hoping his mother doesn’t notice his unfinished chores.

“Oh?” he manages. 

Thankfully, Guts continues without catching Griffith’s inner turmoil.

“She said— since I’m a noble now— that I should act more like one.” Guts rubs his neck. “I dunno. Maybe she’s right. Doubt there’s a lot of nobles around that can’t even read.” He huffs a laugh, but it falls flat. 

This self deprecating tone is unfamiliar, coming from Guts. Very carefully, Griffith breathes out long and deep. 

“She’s wrong,” he says, firmly. It comes out more vigorously than he intended and Guts looks at him, brows high on his face. “Your expertise lies in other areas. You needn’t worry about reading or writing, just leave that to me.” 

Guts’ expression doesn’t change much, but his mouth twitches down just a touch and Griffith gets a distinct impression that he’s said the wrong words. 

“Ha, you’re probably right,” Guts says, a small, wretched smile on his face. It hurts to see. 

“No—that’s not what I meant. I misspoke.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I wouldn’t be any good at it anyway.” 

“No, Guts, please,” Griffith says. “I only meant that… even if you aren’t literate, that doesn’t detract from your value, neither as a soldier nor as my friend. I, um.” He finds himself looking directly into Guts’ deep, dark eyes. Words that usually come so easily trip over the hurdle of his teeth before they can leave his lips. “I—you—you don’t need to force yourself to change, especially not to fit in with the likes of _nobility,_ of all people.” 

He trails off with a clumsy laugh. It’s absolutely mortifying. 

Guts doesn’t seem to think so, though. His eyes are back on the sword handle but he’s grinning. “Thanks,” he says. “I guess… sometimes I just wonder what all the fuss is about, y’know?” 

“I see.” Griffith works at his lip. “Well, if you’d like… I could teach you.” 

That seems to pique Guts’ interest. “Yeah?” 

“Of course. I would be happy to.” 

Guts looks cautiously pleased. “I don’t even know if I—” He cuts himself off with a throaty laugh, then is quiet for just a moment. “I might take you up on that.” 

The palpitations in Griffith’s chest are disquieting, so he lifts himself out of his seat for something to do. 

“I think I saw a book on the art of calligraphy. That should do nicely for learning your letters.” 

“Whoa, wait. We’re starting now?”

“Why not?” Griffith says over his shoulder, curved lips fixed to his face. “There’s no time like the present.” 

*_*_*_*

That’s how their lessons begin— casual and often disorganized, meeting whenever they can for a few hours. Griffith settles into the role of teacher as graciously as can be expected with a student like Guts. He isn’t difficult, per se, but seeing his immense frame bent over a desk with a pen in hand is so displaced from the version of him in Griffith’s mind, that it’s hard to reconcile the two. 

He decides to start with the alphabet, urging Guts to memorize the shapes and sounds of each letter by writing it out. 

It then becomes clear that he needs to show him how to hold a pen, first. 

When he was small, Griffith’s mother had tried to teach him how to read and write. She wasn’t fully literate herself— she could only read some of the storefront signs, write her name, and spell a few simple words— but she still put a pen in his hand and taught him what little she knew. It wasn’t until years later, long after she was gone, that he’d had the opportunity to study from a more official source. He’d had to unlearn a lot of things. Even so, those early years with his mother had set a foundation upon which he could quickly build his skill; his hands already knew what to do. 

So it surprises him how much difficulty Guts seems to have with it. 

The quill pen looks downright flimsy in his hand. His fingers are stiff, as though he’s afraid that he’ll lose his grip if they shift from their locked position, and he keeps trying to move his whole arm when writing. He’s broken off the nib when Griffith stops him.

“Try just moving your wrist,” he says, then picks up another quill to demonstrate when Guts tilts his head. 

It occurs to him that perhaps Guts never had the chance to develop this kind of muscle memory. He can handle a sword better than any fighter Griffith has seen, but that and this are two completely different animals.

Half an hour later, Guts nearly snaps their only remaining quill out of frustration. 

“How the hell do you make it look like that?” he grouses, looking at the fluid A that Griffith had penned in the corner of the page. 

“It’s just practice. Here.” Gingerly plucking the quill out of Guts’ hand, he scratches out the letter he wrote and jots down a less embellished version. “Don’t think about making it look like mine, that’s not important right now. Focus on memorizing each letter and practicing the movements; once you’ve done that, we can work on your penmanship.”

Guts grumbles, but obediently takes back the pen and continues, a deep furrow marring his brow. His attitude changes drastically after some time, once he manages to pen a respectable, if slightly shaky, A. 

“Yes, just like that,” Griffith says with a wide a smile. “Well done, that one’s wonderful.” 

Guts looks surprised, his lips parted in a half-formed o. Then a certain look washes over him, something soft but inching steadily towards pleased.

“Well damn, I guess I’m getting the hang of this,” He says, smile bordering on smug. He picks up his quill and starts on a series of B’s with renewed vigor. 

Griffith hides a smile behind his hand. He makes a point to increase the praise after that. 

On their second lesson, Guts completes the full alphabet, spaced neatly across a piece of parchment. Griffith himself contributes by adding—admittedly unimpressive—drawings of objects starting with each respective letter; apple for A, bottle for B, and so on. Once the ink dries, Guts folds up the parchment with a careful touch that belies the rough callouses on his fingertips and tucks it away among his person, leaving Griffith to wonder what he plans to do with it. 

The answer comes to him later as he walks with one of the castle stewards. They’d been discussing the food stores and the portions that could be realistically spared for the relief effort;the scouts sent out have returned, bringing with them information on the conditions of the villages and the supplies needed for each.

A rabble of voices catch Griffith’s attention, and he turns towards the sound to find a small group of what he recognizes as raiders. Hanging towards the back walks Guts. He seems to be entirely ignoring his surroundings in favor of squinting down at a piece of parchment in his hands.

The parchment from their lessons. 

Griffith is drawn away when the steward clears his throat irritably, and the two of them continue on their way. The whole time, Griffith can’t refrain from smiling, pride pulsing in his chest at the image of Guts studying from the sheet. 

Eventually, others notice.

“What is he doing?” Casca asks one day. 

She’s looking towards Guts who’s leaning against a cart full of practice lances. His arm is wrapped loosely over the hilt of his sword, partially blocking the parchment he has thumbed open in his hands. 

They’re waiting for the recruits to all gather in a practice field a small distance away from the castle. Some stragglers are still yet to arrive, unused to handling horses, so Guts seems to be memorizing his letters in the meantime. 

Griffith almost denies any knowledge, but then feels silly for the impulse. The lessons aren’t a secret, but somehow they feel like one. A tiny oasis, the existence of which isn’t privy to anyone other than Guts and himself. 

He settles for a half truth. “He’s reading something, I expect.” 

“Guts can’t read.” She says this like it’s a fact and Griffith finds himself irritated again. 

“Yes, well, I’m teaching him,” he snaps. 

Casca recoils slightly and falls silent.

“Have I done something to upset you?” Casca asks after a lengthy pause, her voice small.

Griffith opens his mouth, fueled by his ire, but stops short when a reason fails to present itself. 

“I…” 

“Whatever it is, I’m sorry.” Griffith looks down at her. She won’t meet his eyes. “You know I would never do something to upset you on purpose. Just tell me what I did and I’ll fix it.” 

There’s nothing he can do but stare at her, his mind tripping over itself to justify his behavior. 

Reluctantly, he can admit that he doesn’t quite recall the context of the initial conversation that had started all this. What he does remember is the acid in his voice as he spoke to her and the satisfaction he felt when hurt flashed across her face. He’d been angry because—well, because— 

Guts had been smiling at her, when he’d turned into the ambulatory surrounding the courtyard. His hand was on her back, and her cheeks had been bright and rosy. Seeing them standing there together, looking at each other, they’d looked—good. Good together. 

And something ugly had flared inside Griffith. 

That ugly thing had been fed when Guts had turned away after catching his eye, ignoring Griffith’s raised arm. 

It had been fed again when he had berated Griffith for upsetting Casca. 

_We’re something like friends these days_

Griffith swallows thickly. He feels ill. 

“Griffith?”

He starts at the sound of Casca’s voice, and finds her looking at him with concern. 

“Are you… are you alright?” 

“I’m sorry.” His voice cracks and he clears his throat as Casca’s concern morphs into alarm.

“Are you feeling ill?” she demands. Griffith almost laughs at the irony. 

“No, I’m fine.” He looks at her and her willingness to jump to his aid, even though he’s done nothing but treat her with derision for over a week, and feels disgusted with himself. “Casca, I owe you an apology.”

“Wha—no, Griffith you have nothing to apologize for—”

“I do. I’ve been… I’ve had a lot on my mind, and I’m afraid I’ve been irritable, and.” He falters. “And I’ve been taking it out on you when you’ve done nothing to warrant it. So I’m sorry.” 

Casca’s mouth hangs open. He realizes with a tinge of shame that she’s shocked to hear him apologize. A light dusting of pink graces her cheeks, something Griffith staunchly ignores. 

She bites her lip and lowers her gaze. “I understand you’re under stress, Griffith. It’s nothing you have to apologize over.”

Some things never change, it seems. “Casca,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder with a tired smile, “let me apologize. Please.” 

She looks back up at him with a modest slump to her shoulders, quiet. But then she cautiously returns his smile. “I suppose I accept your apology, then.”

“Thank you.” 

It feels like something is released between them in that moment, the atmosphere shrugging the strained and stilted weights off of it’s shoulders, things slotting back in place. 

“So, you’re teaching Guts how to read?” 

Griffith welcomes the change in topic, and the two of them fondly reminisce of times past when Griffith had also taught Casca her letters, though that had been more of a joint effort between him and Judeau. Casca is only as deferential as she usually is towards him, and Griffith feels lighter for it.

Still, as the rest of the recruits arrive and Griffith mounts his own steed to direct the drills, that ugly feeling in his belly refuses to go away. 

For the next few days, Griffith finds it difficult to meet Guts’ eyes.

If Guts notices, he doesn’t mention it. Admittedly, eye contact is easy to avoid when the other party is more concerned with the paper in front of him than whatever is happening on Griffith’s face. 

He’s grateful for the momentary lack of scrutiny while Guts studies; he gets enough of that from himself. It seems impossible not to try and puzzle out his own behavior, but his thoughts keeping running in circles like a dog chasing its own tail. It’s dizzying and ultimately unsatisfying. He can’t help throwing his mind back to that day nearly a fortnight ago and analyzing his own unsettling reaction to the sight of Guts and Casca getting along, despite everything. It’s as if he was— jealous. 

Which is ridiculous. What does he have to be jealous of?

Perhaps Guts and Casca really are friends now. That’s… a good thing. It’s a _good_ thing. Griffith had been hoping the two of them would learn to get along since the day he recruited Guts, and it finally seems to be happening. They’ll all work better as a unit now, a well oiled machine, finally rid of the three-year-old rust that caused friction between two of the most important gears. 

And it’s not like Griffith _isn’t_ friends with Guts. He’d argue that their friendship is likely far greater than the burgeoning relationship between Guts and Casca. No, definitely.

But does that mean that Griffith is just being possessive over Guts? Jealous that his friend is friends with others, like a child with a shiny new toy? 

It’s a sickening thought. 

Exhausted, he casts the whole notion aside for the time being, refocusing on his student. 

It’s almost like Guts senses his shifting attention, because he looks up at him curiously. Griffith can only hide behind a placid smile. 

Another week passes like this. They continue polishing Guts’ penmanship— moving on to spelling out simple words when he starts to get restless with the repetition— and Griffith buries the jealousy deep down until he’s almost convinced himself that it’s not there. 

*_*_*_*

It’s another frigid day in a long line of them the first time they move their lessons to Griffith’s room. 

There’s a piercing moisture in the air that sinks rapidly into flesh and bone, like clawed fingers digging in to the point of pain. The temperature proves to be too much for the two of them, so Griffith offers the use of his room— closer than the barracks and warmer to boot— to thaw their frozen toes. 

Instead of studying, they huddle in front of the newly stirred fire, seated in a couple of expensive chairs that creak under their weight. Griffith stares into the embers, unable to look away even as his retinas burn. Their thighs are touching. Somehow that point of contact sears itself into his psyche, hotter than any flame. 

Griffith’s bookshelves had never inspired more than a cursory glance from Guts. He peruses them now, though, once the heat of the fireplace fills the space between the stone walls. Haltingly, he examines the well loved spines, brow pinched and lips moving as he works out the titles, sometimes rolling his eyes or snorting before moving on to the next one. 

Between one title and the next, their eyes meet and Griffith stands abruptly, turning his back and walking over to his desk. 

Hidden away in one of his cupboards is an expensive bottle of wine that Griffith had been given. He’s been saving it— not so much for a special occasion, but because drinking it alone in his rooms seemed a waste, if not entirely pathetic— but he takes it out this evening and uncorks it with flourish. 

“So you got a favorite book outta these?” Guts asks once the two of them have nearly finished off the wine. 

The two have dispersed throughout the room. Griffith is slouched in his chair, but his legs are propped up on Guts’ now vacant seat, Guts having moved to the edge of the bed.

Clutching the bottle to his chest, Griffith scans his bookshelves with bleary eyes. While he’s readily on his way to being drunk, Guts seems to barely be on the edge of tipsy, his attractively pink cheeks the only sign of his inebriation. 

A truly indecipherable sound is Griffith’s first attempt at a response. He clears his throat.

“Why—do you ask?”

“Dunno. Just wondering.” 

Griffith hums. The thoughts in his head are sluggish, rising to the surface one by one like bubbles traveling up through silt, and he struggles to grasp any one of them before they pop. 

Finally, something sticks. 

“The Errantry.”

“The Errantry?”

He hums again, closing his eyes. The room is swaying, mildly enough that the sensation stays pleasant rather than nauseating. “It’s the, ah,” he gestures towards the shelves to his right with the hand gripping the bottle neck, “the dark blue one towards the top.” 

The next time he opens his eyes, Guts is standing with the thick tome in his hands. 

“You can reach that?” Griffith slurs, incredulously. 

Guts looks at him like he’s said something bizarre, but a grin is creeping across his mouth. “Yeah?”

“You’re absto—asbolut— you’re _massive_.” 

Then Guts is laughing, at _him,_ Griffith is sure. He can’t help but join in though, the combination of good alcohol and company sending mirth skipping up from his belly. 

“What’s it about?”

“Hm?”

“The book,” Guts prods, gently. He’s suddenly much closer than Griffith remembers. When did that happen?

It takes a moment for Griffith to gather his thoughts, and he shifts in his seat. The reason for Guts’ nearness becomes clear when Griffith nearly slides right off the chair and Guts is there to help him steady himself. 

“Oh Lord,” Griffith laments, though it sounds more like a snicker. “Forgive me, Guts. I must be _quite_ drunk.” 

“Yeah, no kidding. Were you always such a lightweight?” 

Griffith peers up at Guts, who looks down at him with an amused quirk to his mouth. “I don’t think so,” he says. He considers righting himself and moving away from his friend, but Guts really _is_ quite warm, up against his side like that. “I haven’t been drinking much since— well, even before we left for Doldrey.” 

Guts makes a considering sound. “‘Guess your, uh— what’s that word? You know, you can’t drink much ‘cause you haven’t done it in a while. You said it the other day.” 

“Tol—tolerance?”

“That’s it. Your tolerance is shit now.”

The giggles come back as Griffith reaches for the book in Guts’ free hand. Balancing both the bottle and book is a challenge, but he manages to settle back in his seat without incident— reluctantly leaning away from Guts’ solid shoulder — and lifts open the front cover. 

“It’s about a— king. And his advisor,” says Griffith, finally meandering back to the topic at hand. 

Guts gives a perfunctory nudge to Griffith’s calves propped on the other chair, pushing them off entirely when they don’t budge. He ignores Griffith’s weak protest as he sits down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. 

“A king?”

“Yes, and his advisor. They knew each other their whole lives— met when they were boys, y’know— and had a deep bond; brothers in all but blood. He was one of those warrior kings of old, and it’s sort of a colletc-” he clears his throat, “a collection of stories about their adventures.”

Tracing the elaborate title with his fingers, Griffith looks up when Guts makes a soft sound. “What is it?”

Guts shrugs. “Just didn’t think a storybook would be your favorite. Seems more like something I’d like.” 

“Well,” Griffiths says, fighting to keep himself from slurring, “is that so surprising?”

“That you like storybooks?”

“That we have similar interests.” He smiles at Guts. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” 

A grin, slow and lovely, stretches Guts’ cheeks. He looks away with a pleased huff, and Griffith  is overcome with affection for the surprisingly shy display. But then Guts reaches over and snatches the bottle right out of Griffith’s hands, taking a hearty swig. 

“Go on,” he says, lips stained red with wine. “Read some. I wanna hear about this warrior king.” 

“The ending is sad,” Griffith blurts out.

“Who cares? ‘Not like we’re gonna get there tonight.” He leans forward. “C’mon, we can pretend you’re still teaching me.” 

So Griffith flips to the first chapter and starts reading. The letters swim on the page just a bit, like they’re treading water, and Griffith’s articulation is shot, but Guts doesn’t seem to mind whenever he has to pause and sound out a word. They read until the sky outside darkens to show the stars, late into the night.

When Griffith wakes the next morning, it’s with a hazy memory of Guts hauling Griffith onto his bed before departing for his own rooms, and he wants to sink into his bedsheets and never face Guts again. But he sees his friend that very afternoon, his head still pounding, and he doesn’t seem to care one bit about Griffith’s unseemly behavior the night before. Instead, he asks for the two of them to keep reading from The Errantry.

It becomes a routine, after that. 

They meet up at least three times a week, more if they can manage it, and Griffith continues to teach Guts during their increasingly casual study sessions. Sometimes all they can spare is an hour or two, slipped between their responsibilities. On those days, they simply skip the ink and quills and go straight to reading from the book. 

When Griffith thinks back on that brief, easy time, shining like a candle in his memory, he remembers the sensation of dry pages beneath his fingertips, of Guts’ rumbling laughter, and the comfort of basking in the presence of a friend. 

*_*_*_*

It snows again, before long. 

Looking out the window of his room, Griffith worries his lip. The scheduled departure for the relief effort is in just over a fortnight, and while Griffith wasn’t embellishing his faith in the Hawks’ ability to navigate harsh weather, this heavy flurry of snow isn’t promising. 

He turns back to his desk, reaching for his quill when there’s a knock on a door. It’s more of a scrape of knuckles against wood, really, and Griffith smiles. 

“It’s not locked,” he calls. 

He dips his quill in ink, carefully scraping away any excess while the door swings open and then is unceremoniously kicked shut. After penning down a few sentences, Griffith looks up at Guts, sat heavily on his bed, and fails to stile a laugh. 

Guts looks a sight more disheveled than usual. Currently, he’s fighting to get out of his chest-plate which is packed with snow on the shoulders and icy everywhere else, and his cheeks and nose are flushed from the cold. Little clusters of ice cling to his hairline until he reaches up and scatters them all across the floor. If it weren’t for the armor and the enormous blade leaning against the door frame, he’d almost look like a child coming in from playing in the snow.

“Did you enjoy the weather?” Griffith asks, brushing some stray ice fragments from his trousers. 

Guts fixes him with a glare. “Funny,” he gripes, and Griffith struggles to keep a straight face. 

“Snow came out of nowhere,” Guts grumbles once he’s removed his armor, shoved into a corner of the room. He then hurries to the fireplace to warm his hands. “It was pretty tame at first, and we figured it’d be good practice for the recruits so we kept going with the drills, but— shit, look at it out there.” 

Griffith follows his gaze towards the window and grimaces. It’s near impossible to make out anything beyond the dense swarm of white against the glass. 

“One of the newbies’ horses slipped and fell. Francis, or something. Casca ended training after that.” 

“Oh. Is he alright?”

“The man or the horse?”

Griffith shrugs. “Both?”

“Francis got thrown off. He’ll probably have a nasty bruise but he’ll be fine. Horse broke its ankle.” 

Griffith hisses in sympathy. “Will it have to be put down?”

“Probably.” 

The two of them stare into the blizzard in silence, a thin sheet of glass their only defense against the ruthless abuse of the elements. 

Frowning, Guts turns to face Griffith. “Isn’t the convoy leaving in a couple weeks?”

Griffith laughs, low and devoid of humor. “I was just thinking about that,” he says leaning back in his seat with a sigh. “The majority of soldiers coming will be veteran members who have experience with traveling on horseback during less than ideal conditions, and there shouldn’t be any reason for risky maneuvers. Even if there are complications, I have faith in the Hawks to be able to accommodate accordingly. Everything will be _fine_.” 

“As long as the blizzard lets up,” Guts adds with a quirk of the mouth. 

“…Yes, that would be helpful. Speaking of, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.” Drifting over to where Griffith sits at his desk, Guts looks at him curiously and gestures with a hand to go on. In response, Griffith reaches for a rolled up sheet of parchment and uses an ivory paperweight to help keep it uncurled. It’s a detailed map of Midland. 

“I had the royal cartographer draw this up for me,” he explains at Guts’ impressed whistle. 

“Since there are eleven villages and towns that we’ll be traveling to, the convoy will be split into two groups, each traveling with half of the supplies. The idea is that one group will head towards the eastern-most settlements, and the other towards the western ones, eventually meeting in the middle, here.” He taps a spot on the map labelled, ‘Breheim’. “That way, we can get to all of them in less time, and in the unlikely case that we’re raided, only half of the supplies would be at risk.”

“Makes sense,” Guts says.

“I’ll be leading the east-bound group. Casca will be leading the west-bound one.” 

“Alright, so which group am I with?” When Griffith doesn’t immediately go on—instead peeking sheepishly up at him—Guts’ mouth drops open. “Wait, I’m staying _here_?”

“You’ll be in charge of the remainder of the Hawks defending the castle, as well as the continued overseeing of the recruits—” rushes Griffith, flushing a little when Guts’ groans. “Judeau and Rickert will stay here with you, so you won’t be alone.”

“So I’m gonna be stuck here guarding the princess and babysitting the newbies?” 

“Yes, it’s _important._ I can’t very well take both of my best fighters with me when I need someone here, defending the kingdom in my absence,” Griffith says, stern. Guts quells with a little huff, so Griffith goes on. “And we both know that between the two of you, Casca is better geared towards strategy and diplomacy, both of which she’ll need.” 

A certain look crosses Guts’ face then. The straight line of his spine curves a little and he seems to deflate ever so slightly. “Yeah, yeah, I see your point…” he says, ruffling the hair at the back of his head. Heaving a great sigh, he re-situates himself onto the bed. 

Griffith bites his cheek. “Are you upset?” 

“Nah, it’s just…” With some maneuvering, Guts shuffles up until he’s leaning against the headboard, his legs still dangling off the side. “I was just looking forward to getting outta the castle for a while. Guess I’ve been feeling cooped up.” 

“Oh…” The quill is still in his hand, Griffith distantly realizes. He sets it down with care. There’s a perfect triangle of space where the barbs of the feather have split apart, and he smooths it away for something to do with his hands. “There will be other opportunities,” he murmurs to the tabletop, “this isn’t permanent.” 

A quiet settles over the room, heavy on his shoulders. 

“Hey.” At Guts’ voice, Griffith glances up only to be caught on the gaze already waiting for him. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“I know that.” The response is automatic, but Griffith feels something loosen in him all the same. Like taking a step in the dark and finding that the stair was there after all.  
  
“All I meant was that I like traveling with you. And the Hawks.” Guts clears his throat, straightening and bringing his hands together with a loud clap. “Anyway, should we, uh…” he makes an odd, repetitive gesture with a hand. Griffith just stares at him, bewildered. 

“…Write?” 

“Oh!” Flustered, Griffith laughs. “Of course. Erm, I have a few things I need to finish up first. Will you wait?” 

Guts opens his mouth, but is interrupted by a huge yawn. “Sure.” 

“You can rest on my bed if you’re tired—take off your boots, please,” he snaps, and Guts raises his feet from where they were about to touch the bedcovers. “This shouldn’t take long.” 

It’s dark outside by the time Griffith surfaces from the documents in front of him. He stretches in his seat, twisting at the waist to try and assuage the persistent twinge there, and nearly jumps a foot in the air when he catches sight of a large figure on the fringes of the candlelight. He’d been so absorbed in his tasks that he’d somehow completely forgotten about his friend’s presence. 

“Damn,” Griffith swears softly and bolts out of his chair. With an embarrassed apology on his tongue, he heads over to Guts with a light in his hand but pauses when the candle further illuminates the bed. His breath catches in his throat. 

Guts is fast asleep. 

He’s seen Guts sleeping before, of course he has. One learns to catch sleep at any opportunity in a mercenary band. Whether it be against a tree, within a tent, or— on one memorable occasion— while riding a horse, Guts seems to be able to sleep whenever and wherever he needs to. Something about this feels different, though. 

Perhaps it’s the setting. He’s never had the chance to see Guts sleeping indoors, on a bed that isn’t dwarfed by his size. Well, not completely, anyway. 

Griffith sidles closer. Even asleep, Guts’ scowl isn’t entirely absent. His expression resembles the one he makes whenever Corkus starts blowing his own horn around camp, lips twitching in mild annoyance. What could he be dreaming about, Griffith wonders with a smile, settling the candle in a nook in the wall. Maybe he really _is_ dreaming about Corkus.

When he goes to crouch down, Griffith’s boot heel catches on something and the enormous sword propped up against the doorframe makes itself known with a scream of metal against stone. He leaps at it, stopping it’s descent by sandwiching the flat of the blade between his body and the wall, and is suddenly presented with the gaping silence in the wake of its echo. 

As his heart pounds in his chest, he steals a glance at Guts’ face. Miraculously, he’s still asleep. 

He settles the sword on the ground with a rattled sigh and returns to Guts’ side. Realizing he probably should have just let the sound wake him up, Griffith reaches for Guts’ shoulder and shakes him gently. 

“Guts,” he murmurs, unable to raise his voice despite it all. “Guts, you need to wake up.” 

Griffith has to call his name a few more times before he stirs, and when he does it’s a partial kind of awareness, one foot still firmly planted in the land of dreams. He blinks, his eyelids looking impossibly heavy, and his head lolls on his neck as he looks around confused. Upon seeing Griffith, he stills. 

Guts smiles, then. It’s a slow, lazy thing that seems designed to trip up Griffith’s pulse, to warm up the space between them. “Hey,” he rumbles, voice vibrating out of his chest, gravelly from sleep. 

“Hello,” Griffith finds himself saying. The word comes out rather more breathless than he’d wanted. He’s feeling quite winded, actually. 

Swallowing, he says, “I think you ought to head to your— Guts?” 

The man in question seems to be flagging again, lashes fluttering shut as his eyes roll into the back of his head. He lets out a loud snore. “Guts don’t— you need to get up!” 

Leaving gentleness by the wayside, Griffith jostles his shoulder, calling his name at louder intervals until he’s practically yelling. 

Guts sniffles and turns his head away. He doesn’t get up.

“Good God.” Sitting on his heels, Griffith wars with himself on his next course of action.

Guts isn’t typically a deep sleeper. While he always seemed able to drop off anywhere he wished, he was also quick to wake when the situation called for it. It was nigh impossible to sneak up on him while he slumbered; Guts would have his sword out and against your throat before you could get close. So for him to be sleeping so soundly now suggests a level of exhaustion that’s hard to dismiss. 

It’s with some ire that Griffith realizes he’s floundering. He stands with purpose, his mind decidedly not made up, and flounders some more.

The thing is, Griffith would actually like to go to sleep. Admittedly, it’s his own fault for losing track of time, but the hour is late and he has to be up at dawn, and the fact that sleep may not currently be an option is making him crave it all the more. 

But that brings him right back around to the obstacle at hand. 

Griffith’s gaze rests on Guts for a long moment, then travels towards the door as he runs his hand through his hair. His feet jolt into action, and in a second he’s standing in front of his chamber entrance, his hand hovering uncertainly over the key, and all at once he’s tired of his own indecisiveness. 

With a frustrated sigh, he locks the door with a snap of his wrist and marches to his dresser, definitely not thinking about it. 

He doesn’t think about it as he turns his back to where Guts lies on his bed and starts undressing. Articles of clothing are methodically removed, and Griffith takes the time to fold each item and return them to their rightful drawer with a concentration the task doesn’t merit. 

He’s still not thinking about it when he toes off his shoes and undoes the laces of his trousers. It’s not until he’s standing in nothing but his underclothes and stockings that he pauses. Usually he sleeps wearing only his under tunic, but considering the situation that seems…

Ignoring the flush in his cheeks, he rips off his stockings and tosses them into the hamper. He keeps the braies on. 

Maneuvering into bed is an entirely new challenge. Guts’ bulk takes up the majority of the mattress, and the only space remaining is right up against the wall. Griffith entertains the idea of shoving at Guts until he rolls over, but abandons the notion given that he’s not sure that he physically could. 

Instead Griffith awkwardly climbs over the footboard and slides into place, wrestling with the quilt until he can pull it over himself. He's almost settled when he remembers the candle, and has to lean precariously over Guts to blow it out. 

The darkness brings with it the awareness of silence. As Griffith shimmies back into place, swathed in blankets up to his neck, the vast stillness of the castle seems to close in on him. Everyone must be asleep by now. 

He’s facing the wall, the stone barely an inch from the tip of his nose. The lines of his body are tense, careful so that no part of him is touching Guts even though the quilt acts as a barrier between them; Guts had fallen asleep on top of the bedcovers. Within Griffith’s chest, his racing heart keeps his eyes open and his mind uncomfortably alert. This is ridiculous. He squeezes his eyelids shut then relaxes them, trying to urge his mind to rest. 

It only succeeds in a blooming sort of ache behind his eyeballs. 

He doesn’t know how long he lies there. The only way to measure the passage of time is his breathing, but it feels labored and not entirely reliable. Even with the blankets there’s a chill in the air, and Griffith wishes that he’d had the forethought to add some wood to the fire. He’d been distracted at the time. 

Guts has always run hot, he knows that objectively, but he can feel the heat radiating off of the other man even through the covers. He eventually falls asleep practically pressed against the wall, refusing to let himself roll towards the warmth. 

*_*_*_*

When he next regains consciousness, it feels like summer. 

Griffith hums, burrowing deeper into the silken sheets and pressing his nose into the mattress. He feels rested in a way that usually comes after a full nights sleep, which is odd since he’s fairly sure he didn’t turn in until late. The thought that maybe he’s slept in is slowly worming itself into his brain when his mattress moves. 

Suddenly, everything floods back. 

His eyes fly open as his entire body jolts and he rears back, propping himself on his elbows and disturbing the blankets. Warm air rushes out from under his cocoon of wool and silk, replaced by temperatures of a room gone unheated all night. Griffith shivers, but ignores it in favor of staring at Guts, whose shoulder he’d apparently been using as a pillow. 

At some point during the night, Guts had shifted. His arm is splayed out beneath where Griffith’s head had been laying, and he’s turned on his side, effectively boxing Griffith against the wall.

Face hot, he scrambles to calm the chaos in his head. In the light of day, Griffith’s decision last night seems spontaneous and stupid. Surely he could have forced Guts awake so that they could both be spared the embarrassment of the morning after? The tension slowly ebbs, though, when he notices that Guts is still dead to the world. 

And isn’t that an apt descriptor. Guts is remarkably still, his brow smoothed out and his chest rising so slowly that it almost looks like it’s not moving. His eyelashes aren’t particularly long, but they’re thick and black as ink, and they splay against his brown cheekbones in a way that lends an air of innocence to a figure that is anything but. 

The rest of his surroundings feel faint, like a dream slipping beneath his memory as he drinks in the sight of his friend.

It’s the first time that Griffith has been this close to Guts— or allowed himself to be. He can see the faint bags under his eyes and the imperfections of his skin, slightly oily from sleep. He can even see his pores.

There’s a stray lash under his eye, and without thinking, Griffith reaches up to brush it away. After that, it only feels natural to trace the old scar that runs across the bridge of his nose. He’d once asked Guts how he’d gotten it, but he had just mumbled something about a childhood accident, refusing to elaborate beyond that. Griffith hopes that he will tell him one day. 

On his chiseled jaw is the faintest shadow of stubble, and Griffith frowns as he runs his thumb back and forth over it. Does Guts shave? His mind conjures up a scene where Guts holds his greatsword up against his cheek to shave in the mornings, and his shoulders shake at the image.

He feels drunk; overheated with blood pleasantly pounding in his head. Somehow in the early morning light, where the only sounds are the chirping of birds and the distant bustling of servants, the world feels sleepy and unthreatening. Intimate. It makes him feel brave, maybe a little reckless. 

So, even though he can feel his entire body thrumming, it’s only when his thumb hovers over Guts’ lower lip that it occurs to him that he’s invading his friend’s privacy. 

The thought is abruptly sobering. He freezes. 

Griffith is so close that his own breath bounces back against his face. When had he gotten so close? He moves to pull back but accidentally presses down on Guts’ lips in the process— 

And he knows he shouldn’t, he _knows_ he’s being despicable, touching him like this while he sleeps, but Griffith just can’t seem to look away. 

They’re so much fuller than Griffith had realized.They’re not soft exactly— too chapped for that— but they add a touch of softness to an otherwise handsomely rugged picture. A contradiction, like the gentle curves in a stone sculpture. 

He doesn’t even notice that he’s tracing those lips, that he’s leaning in until their noses are almost touching, that he can feel Guts’ hot breaths against his mouth. There isn’t all that much going through his mind at the moment, truth be told. 

All Griffith can feel is the visceral need to be near Guts, to know the form of his existence in any way possible, to express the cloying heat that tingles throughout his chest. It seems impossible to articulate it through the pounding in his ears, but maybe— maybe if he just—

Guts stirs. 

Griffith nearly slams himself into the wall in his haste to get away. If he weren’t so thoroughly tangled in the bedsheets, he probably would have. As it is, he just manages to turn towards the wall and squeeze his eyes shut when Guts shifts around, surfacing from his slumber. 

He can hear Guts groaning as he wakes, sounding groggy and confused, and he forces himself to steady his breaths that want to come out in great pants. His heart is trying its very best to escape his ribcage, thrashing against his chest in a rapid staccato and he hopes to God that Guts doesn’t notice how red he must be. 

“What the fuck?” Guts mumbles, voice like sandpaper. 

The mattress heaves as he moves, and Griffith is horrified to realize that, in his state of panic, he’d settled his head back down on Guts’ outstretched arm. Guts seems to come to the same realization when he nearly upends Griffith’s head. He swears softly, lowering himself down again. 

For a long moment, things are quiet and Griffith sweats. Does Guts know he’s awake? Did he fall back asleep? Is he waiting for Griffith to explain himself? Can he somehow tell that Griffith— that he almost—

Guts breathes noisily through his nose, and Griffith’s thoughts are thoroughly interrupted by the gush of warm air against the back of his neck. He’s then further distracted when Guts begins to carefully wiggle his arm out from under Griffith. 

All he can do is lay limp while Guts extracts himself, then stay quiet as he shuffles around the room to collect his things with what he probably thinks is stealth. 

Griffith’s back feels cold. His face feels hot. 

It must be an age by the time Guts gets to the door. There’s a jangle of the handle, a pause, and then again with violence. 

Stomach sinking, Griffith remembers that he locked it last night. Good lord, what must Guts think, finding Griffith next to him in bed with the door locked? 

After several excruciating seconds that feel much longer, there’s a loud click of the key being turned. Griffith wishes that Guts would hurry up and leave already, but he seems to just stand there in silence for a few moments more. 

Finally, _finally,_ the sound of the door being jerked open, and then swinging shut. 

He doesn’t know how, but Griffith manages to stay still as he listens for Guts’ steady footsteps in the corridor. Once they fade in the distance, he opens his eyes and stares, unseeing, at the stone of the wall. 

His innards feel twisted up, and his pulse is thundering in his ears. If he moves, he’s sure that he’ll unravel at the seams, spilling his entrails against the sheets. 

Griffith is appalled at himself. How could he put his hands on a friend, on _Guts_ , like that? Watching him during such a state of vulnerability, like some sort of voyeur? Guts trusts him, and even if he doesn’t know it, Griffith has abused that trust. 

He feels like dirt. 

But the self loathing is nearly eclipsed by the persistent fluttering in his stomach. It might be pleasant if it wasn’t nauseating. 

Suddenly his stubborn jealousy towards Casca makes an ugly amount of sense. Perhaps he had been deliberately fooling himself, stumbling around in a confused fog of his own making so that he wouldn’t come to the obvious conclusion. He’s starting to suspect that this is a common occurrence. 

It was only a little while ago that Griffith woke up, but he wants to go back to sleep all over again. He knows he won’t, there are too many things that need to be done, but the idea is a tempting one. 

He rolls over and buries his face into the pillow. It smells like Guts. He’s inhaling deeply before he can think better of it and his entire body seems to melt, calming the choppy ocean within his mind. The scent transports Griffith to a place where reality and fiction merge, and he’s remembering a warm body against his back, a thick arm thrown over his waist, the hot press of lips against his neck—

Griffith snaps his eyes open, unsure when they had closed. He may be in more trouble than he thought. 

“Fuck.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [relentlesslyexisting](https://relentlesslyexisting.tumblr.com/) drew some awesome [fanart](https://relentlesslyexisting.tumblr.com/post/187432657010/i-drew-this-fanart-for-this-wonderful-berserk) for chapter 3! Thank you so much (´•̥̥̥ω•̥̥̥`)

**Author's Note:**

> this was largely inspired by [bthump](https://bthump.tumblr.com/)'s blog & meta, and probably wouldn't have happened without it, so go check it out!


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